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SOME WOMEN’S HEARTS 


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Messrs* Roberts Brothers Publications, 


NEIGHBORS: 


SHORT CHATS ON SOCIAL TOPICS. 
By LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 

i6mo, cloth, price, $i.oo ; paper, 50 cents. 

♦ 

A book of social studies, ranging over such topics as “ Rosebuds in Societ}^,” 
“Young Beaux and Old Bachelors,” “ Engagements,” “After Marriage,” and 
other similar vital experiences, which are discussed with exquisite refinement, 
good sense, and unfailing charm. . . . Mrs. Moulton never loses sight of ideals 
of conduct which are noble and beautiful, and which are worthy to hang as fixed 
stars over our lives, — to quote the words of a great German philosopher. She 
brings to bear, also, that wide range of experience in the most brilliant and culti- 
vated social circles that holds all standards amenable to outward realization, and 
her gentle counsel thus becomes as suggestive as it is ideally fine. — Boston 
Traveller. 

If we had our way, this delightful little manual of social ethics should have a 
place among the text-books of all our school-girls’ senior year. Mrs. Moulton’s 
philosophy of the pleasure and the mental and spiritual profit of social intercourse 
is based on the sure foundation of the education of the heart. From right feeling 
right action proceeds, as the rays from the flame. There is sound sense, wit, 
geniality, tenderness, and the delicate fragrance of exquisite refinement pervading 
all ; but not a cynical nor a sarcastic line in the book. There is that wholesome 
reality about it possible only where the author lives what she writes. — Boston 
Pilot. 

Here is a book of courtesy, of rightful living, and of persuasive wisdom, which 
will find its audience. It is a poet’s work, gracefully humorous and serious, and 
on its own topics quite oracular. Its purpose is to emphasize the ideals of 
quiet home living, and of our inter-relationships outside of home, as acquaint- 
ances, friends, and lovers. Pervading every chapter, through the medium of a 
mellow and very beautiful style, is, too, the unconscious personal influence, which, 
being on the side first of kindness, and, after, of the noble meanings of etiquette 
and propriety, must make itself felt ; a spirit unaided, tolerant, and sanguine of all 
best things. — New York Home Journal. 


QURSELVES 

.AND OUR 


Sold by all booksellers. Mailed., post-paid., on receipt of 
price., by the publishers, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 


Some 



WOMEN’S Hearts. 


BY 

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON, 

AUTHOR OF “bed-time STORIES.” 


The sense of the world is short, — 

Long and various the report, — 

To love and be beloved ; 

Men and gods have not outlearned it ; 

And, how oft soe’er they’ve turned it, 

’Twill not be unproved. 

R. W. Emerson. 



BOSTON: 

ROBERTS BROTHERS. 
1888. 







V 


PZ3 

Sr 

, — £ 

the LIBRARY ®F 

CONGRESS, 

Two Cof»iBe RecetvEO • 

APR. 28 1902 

Copvmr^HT fffrrwv 

T.S’^/C^CZ- 

CLASS ou x)to. No. 

^ ^ 3> S 

COPY A, 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 





CAMBRIDGE : 

PRESS OP JOHN WILSON AND SOW. 



TO 

A FEW BELOVED WOMEN, 

W WHOSE FAITHFUL HEAETS I HAVE FOU^^> THE TRUTH AND 
LOYALTY THAT ARE FRIENDSHIP AND THE 
UNSELFISHNESS THAT IS LOVE, 

I OFFER THESE PAGES, IN WHICH SOME OF THEM, PERHAPS, 
MAY SEE THEMSELVES AS I HAVE 
SEEN THEM. 

L. C. M. 


Mat. 1ST4. 



\ 


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CONTENTS. 


PAGH 

Fleeing from Fate 1 

Brains 131 

Twelve Years of My Life 157 

Little Gibraltar 208 

Household Gods 225 

The Judge’s Wife . . . 258 

A Letter, and what came of it 289 

Out op Nazareth 321 


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SOME WOMEN’S HEARTS 


FLEEING FROM FATE. 


CHAPTER I. 

ELIZABETH. 

T^TJSK was settling down upon the great, roomy 
house in which the Fordyces lived. It was a 
May evening, but chill, with some lingering breath of 
the vanished winter, and a bright fire was kindled in 
the great open stove. A servant brought in lights, and 
placed one on the centre-table, and another on the 
mantel. They revealed the group in the room quite 
clearly. A set of merry young people were these For- 
dyces, — pure blondes, all of them, except one who 
stood at the window, and who was not a daughter of 
the house, though her name was also Fordyce. 

Kate Fordyce was the eldest of the party, and be- 
sides her there were two other sisters, and two brothers, 
— all Saxon, and rosy, and merry. They were teasing 
each other good-naturedly, laughing a great deal, and 
saying a good many things which passed with them for 
wit, because it takes so little in this respect to satisfy 
those who are ready and waiting to be amused. 

The girl at the window paid no heed to them. She 
1 A. 


2 


SOME WOMENS 8 HEARTS. 


was looking intently out towards the lovely, lonely 
hills, where the rosy glow of the sunset still lingered. 
A little at one side, as the window framed the land- 
scape, was her uncle’s iron manufactory, from which a 
red light streamed high, and sparkling cinders rayed 
off and glittered through the dusk. She always liked 
to look out of this window at this hour. The manufac- 
tory, prosaic as it might be by daylight, gave to the 
evening landscape a weird picturesqueness. Its mys- 
tery allured, as well as its brightness. Then there were 
the hills, — not the one on which the village of Lenox 
stood, — but the distant, solitary ones, where free winds 
blew, which wild birds haunted. Their aspect made 
her sad, oftentimes ; touched her to pain ; and yet she 
used to say that if her ghost could come back she knew 
it would walk among those hills. To-night, however, 
and a great many other times when she looked at them, 
they seemed to her like prison-walls, shutting her in 
from the world, — the world which must be somewhere, 
and mean something besides woods, and slopes, and 
waters, — the world which held excitements the thought 
of which thrilled her pulses, triumphs which fired her 
fancy, delights which haunted her dreams. Would she 
ever, e^ er know any thing about it ; or was Lenox to 
be all her world ? 

She was not unhappy. Her feeling was not positive 
enough for that. She was only beset by the longing 
to eat of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, — the 
longing which is always the inheritance of an imagi- 
native youth. 


ELIZABETH. 


3 


No ODe in the Fordyce household was at all unkind 
to Elizabeth. In a certain fashion they all loved her. 
If there were an imperceptible dividing line between 
them and her, it was she, not they, who drew it. For 
they were not of her kind. Their father and hers had 
been brothers, and certain family traits were reproduced 
in them all. But this girl had taken something from 
her mother which did not run in the Fordyce blood, — 
a fine and keen imagination, a capacity to enjoy and to 
suffer, of which they knew nothing. She was not heed- 
ing now their merry nightfall talk. Her thoughts were 
far away, tilting in some great tournament of life, liv- 
ing in some other world of poetry, and passion, and 
love, and woe. 

She dared sometimes even to utter longing prayers 
that a door might be opened into this world of her 
dreams. It was almost the only prayer she ever said, 
except the Lord’s prayer, which she still repeated every 
night as simply as a child. Of deep spiritual experi- 
ences, of mental confficts, she knew nothing as yet. 
She guessed vaguely at her own capacity for emotion. 
I am glad that I can show her to you once, while still 
all her sorrows lay before her. 

“ What does Queen Bess say ? ” her Cousin Kate 
asked at last, going up to her and breaking in upon her 
revery. 

“ What about ? I have not heard a word you have 
been saying.” 

She turned as she spoke, and her face fulfilled the 
promise of her voice. To do that was something, for 


4 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


the voice was no common one. It was not sweet, sim- 
ply, but low, and clear, and tender. You felt that it 
indicated a deep and thoughtful nature. 

She was a tall, slight girl, this Elizabeth Fordyce, 
whom her cousin called Queen Bess. She had dark 
gray eyes, which sometimes seemed hazel, and some- 
times black. They were shaded by lashes so long that 
they cast a shadow. Her complexion was clear, but not 
fair. She had no color in her cheeks, except when some 
strong emotion stirred her, and then a glow, deep and 
warm as the heart of a summer rose, would suffuse 
them. Her lips alone were bright always. Her head 
was proudly set on her slender throat. Her hair was 
soft, and dark, and abundant. Her features were not 
faultless, but one who cared for her would never remem- 
ber to find fault with them. She had a low, womanly 
brow ; too broad, perhaps, for some tastes. Her mouth 
was not small, but the bright, mobile lips expressed 
every passing shade of feeling. 

I have told you all this, and yet I am conscious that 
I have given you no true conception of Elizabeth. I 
can only trust to your learning to know her as my story 
goes on. In those early days, when, as I said, all her 
troubles lay before her, she neither understood herself, 
nor was understood by any one else. Perhaps no one 
loved her quite well enough to take the trouble of 
studying her. Her individuality was too decided for 
her to be generally popular. Nor had it even been the 
fashion in Lenox to call her pretty. Her cousins — 
with their full contours, their pink cheeks, and yellow 


ELIZABETH. 


5 


hair — were spoken of as “ the handsome Fordyces ; ” 
but no one meant to include Elizabeth when this phrase 
was used. And yet she had a charm of her own for 
those who had ears to hear and eyes to see. As she 
turned to ask what her cousins had been talking about, 
her eyes and cheeks brightened, and the Fordyce 
blondes paled beside her. 

Kate answered her, speaking in a pretty, eager way, 
which seemed like a reminiscence of the time when she 
was fifteen ; but then she had been kept young by over- 
much petting, though she was twenty-four now, and 
the eldest of the Fordyce sisters. 

“We are talking about our May picnic. We must 
have it on Thursday, or we can’t, by any stretch of im- 
agination, call it May-day, for the month goes out on 
that day. We were discussing the propriety of asking 
Elliott Le Roy. He is boarding at the Gilmans, you 
know.” 

“ But we have always said we never would ask any 
of the summer boarders, — birds of passage, here to- 
day, there to-morrow, and caring nothing for any of us. 
For my part, I think the one charm of the May picnic 
has always been that we had only Lenox people, who 
had known about one another all their lives. I don’t 
like strangers.” 

“You think you don’t, I know; but there isn’t one 
of us who longs to see the world as you do. After all, 
Mr. Le Hoy isn’t exactly a stranger. He belongs to us 
and to Lenox in a certain way. He is a cousin of Uncle 
Henry’s new wife. It’s very different, don’t you see, 


6 


SOME WOMEN-^S HEAETS. 


from some one of whom we know nothing ? I suppose 
Aunt Julia’s having settled here was what attracted 
him to the place. He keeps house in Hew York, she 
says, — has an elegant establishment, though he is a bach- 
elor. But he is an author, and he has so many associ- 
ations and engagements in the city that he couldn’t 
get on with his work there, and, as it was something 
he was in a hurry to finish, he came here for the quiet.” 

“An author ! ” 

Elizabeth grew excited, though neither her face nor 
her manner gave evidence of it. She was only eighteen 
then, and full of enthusiasm; very young, too, of her 
age, because she had lived so much in a world of fancy 
and imagination, and known so little of the coarser re- 
alities of actual life. To her dreaming soul an author 
meant something a little less than divine, — a sort of 
denii-god, to whom she could have offered incense like 
a pagan. 

“ What does he write ? ” she asked, with suppressed 
eagerness. 

“ Oh, political things, I believe, and essays on history. 
I heard Aunt Julia say that he was a philosophical his- 
torian, or a historical philosopher, I forget which. But 
there’s no doubt about his cleverness, any more than 
about his money. She says he is a real man of the 
world, too, — very fascinating to women, as it is, and 
he might be very dangerous if he were not so cold. He 
has never loved any one, and does not care to marry. 
He is a good comrade, she says, and generous in a cer- 
tain way ; but that comes of his brain, — his heart was 
forgotten and left out when he was made.” 


ELIZABETH, 


7 


Long afterward Elizabeth remembered those words. 

“ I don’t see why there should have been any question 
about asking him,” she said, quietly. “Very likely he 
will think the whole thing a bore ; but his belonging to 
Aunt Julia gives him a claim to the courtesy of an in- 
vitation. For my part, I hope he’ll come. I confess I 
should like to see a real, live book-maker.” 

Bell Fordyce, the second daughter, laughed merrily. 

“ There,” she cried, ‘‘ you see Queen Bess is as very 
a woman for curiosity as the rest of us. We will have 
the picnic on Thursday, and we will ask the book- 
maker. Dick, you must see about it to-morrow ; and 
you and Rob must give all the rest of the invitations. 
We girls shall have enough to do in making our part 
of the good things ; for I don’t suppose even authors 
are above eating at a picnic.” 

“ Why haven’t we seen this Mr. Le Roy before, since 
he is a family connection?” Elizabeth interpolated, 
pursuing, as her habit was, the subject which interested 
her. 

“ Oh, he only came on Saturday. I suppose Aunt Julia 
would soon have brought him round, or we should have 
met him there, for I guess he goes to her house every 
day ; but now she will be as busy about the picnic as 
we shall, and I suppose we shall see him first on the 
shore of the Mountain Mirror.” 

Then began a discussion about cakes and salads and 
receipts; and Elizabeth turned back again to her win- 
dow, for in this direction no one expected any thing of 
her. So she withdrew into herself, and began to fancy 


SOME WOMEN HEARTS, 


8 

what this man of the world, this scholar, this author, 
would be like. How could people tell that he had no 
heart ? How unfair to pronounce such judgment when 
they really knew nothing about it. Just because he 
had never loved any one yet, — as if every line were 
long enough to fathom a deep nature. 

She was quite prepared to make a hero of him, and 
hitherto she had known only book heroes. It was more 
than twenty years ago, — I am writing in the year of 
our Lord 1873, — and even then Lenox had begun to 
be a tolerably well-known summer resort. But of the 
people who came and went, the Fordyces, living at 
some distance from the village, and taking no boarders, 
saw very little. There were, among the stalwart Berk- 
shiremen, not a few in whom the elements of the heroic 
were not wanting, — men of brains, and soul, and cul- 
ture, — but Elizabeth had seen them so often that she 
had grown used to them, and so never paused to specu- 
late upon their possibilities. This new-comer repre- 
sented to her the unknown, which to a fine and fresh 
imagination is always the admirable. 


CHAPTER II. 

AT THE MOUNTAIN MIRROR. 

Thursday dawned clear and bright, — warmer than 
any day of the month had been before, — a perfect 
time. Elizabeth looked out of her window in a trance 


AT THE MOUNTAIN MIRROR, 


9 


of delight and expectation. The lonely, lovely hills 
had never seemed so fair, so full of promise. The 
sky was a deep, lustrous azure, over which now and 
then some bit of white, fleecy cloud drifted. Elizabeth 
repeated snatches of verse to herself as she dressed. 
She could not sing, but she recited in a chanting tone, 
which was in itself full of musical suggestion. 

She put on a pure white dress. Somehow she felt as 
pure and fresh herself as the new day out of doors, — 
the new day, washed with God’s dews, and freshened 
by His winds. She was as simply glad and expectant 
as a child ; so she suited her attire to her mood. She 
brushed her soft hair away from her forehead, and 
coiled it into a net, through whose slender meshes all 
its beauty was visible. A branch of coral fastened the 
lace around her throat, and was her only ornament. 
She might have sat for a picture of Undine, but for the 
soul, already awakened, which looked out of her 
luminous eyes. 

She went downstairs, and found the rest all ready 
for it was nearly nine o’clock, — Rob and Dick Fordyce 
in their cool, gray suits ; Kate in violet. Bell in pink, 
and Emmie, the youngest one, in sea-green; for the 
three graces were prejudiced against dressing alike, 
and they had been bright enough to discover that 
azure is not of necessity the one idea of blondes. 

They ate their late breakfast in a desultory way; 
one and another jumping up at intervals, to put some 
forgotten or neglected thing into the lunch-baskets. 

About half-past nine they finally got themselves off 


10 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


in a large, comfortable wagon drawn by two horses, the 
three seats of which held them all without incon- 
venience. As the residences of the various guests were 
scattered in different directions, no rendezvous was 
attempted until they should reach the picnic ground. 
I will not bore you with any attempt to make you see 
the Mountain Mirror with my eyes. You may be for- 
tunate enough to go some day to a picnic in Lenox, 
and behold with your own this deep, still tarn, which 
reflects for ever the lofty peak that rises directly from 
its western shore, the lesser hills at the east, and the 
solemn, watching, cloud-swept sky high over all. 

The Fordyce May picnic was held, year after year, 
on this enchanted spot ; and to climb the Peak, and 
look from its summit over the wide-spread landscape, 
was the fatigue which always earned them the right to 
their repast. So they arranged at once, upon arriving, 
baskets and hampers in a cool, shady place, and then 
made ready for their mountain scramble. Presently 
the rest of the company began to appear. Elizabeth 
looked eagerly at the Gilman carriage, but found it 
quite empty of interest for her, containing only Hannah 
and Selina Gilman and their sandy-haired brother. 
Half a dozen other well-laden wagons followed ; and, 
last of all, a light buggy, with a vicious-looking black 
horse, driven by the only stranger of the party. 

Elizabeth Fordyce sat very still in her place under 
the trees, while her cousins went forward to welcome 
Mr. Le Roy. She saw a tall, elegant-looking man, 
dressed in speckless white linen, — a man with the un- 


AT THE MOUNTAIN MIRROR. 


11 


mistakable grand air she had associated with him m 
her fancy. This hero, whose very name, before Eng- 
lish spelling corrupted it, was He JRoi^ the king. 

“ A Saul, than his brethren higher and fairer,” she 
said softly to herself; and just then her cousin Kate 
brought him up to her. 

“ Another Miss Fordyce,” Kate said gayly ; “ my 
Cousin Elizabeth.” 

Elizabeth looked up, and met the gaze of a pair of 
cool, speculative, yet reticent blue eyes, which told no 
secrets and held no smile, though the lips below were 
parted and revealed glittering rows of teeth. He was 
very handsome, — that was her first thought ; very satirical 
also, was her second. He would be intolerant of sen- 
timentality or weakness, some instinct told her. Well, 
she had one gift, that of being able to keep silence ; 
and she need not expose any vulnerable points to his 
shafts. She rose with an air as lofty as his own, and 
gave him her hand. That momentary contact sent a 
curious thrill through her nerves, — not repulsion, 
but as certainly not attraction, — prophecy, perhaps. 
She did not try to analyze it as she sat down again, 
and he passed on with his merry guide, to be made 
acquainted with the rest of the party. 

“ See how he will let Kate bore him,” thought Eliza- 
beth to herself, “just because she is handsome. Good 
and sweet as she is, she could have no comprehension 
of such a man or such a career. How is it that, 
even with the best men, beauty answers for every 
thing ? ” 


12 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


She forgot that her own face had not seemed un- 
lovely when she looked at it in the glass that morning. 
She came nearer to envying her cousin’s yellow locks, 
and pink and white prettiness, and eyes of china blue, 
tlian she had ever come before to a feeling so mean. She 
really wanted this Elliott Le Roy to be interested in 
her. Not that she was thinking of him as possible 
lover or husband, — Elizabeth was too proud to have 
such thoughts a spontaneous growth in her mind, — 
but she wanted to attract him enough to make him 
talk with her, and give her a taste of that wine of life 
which he had quaffed so long that surely its tang must 
linger upon his lips. If her eyes were not blue, or her 
hair yellow, she had at least the ability to appreciate 
him ; but probably he would not care to find that out. 
Just as she was becoming disgusted with herself for this 
phase of envious feeling, he came back to her, quite 
alone this time. 

“ They are getting ready to climb the Peak,” he said, 
carelessly. “ Do you go, — or shall we stay behind in 
the shade, and let the rest look at the view for us ? ” 
That “ we ” stirred Elizabeth’s pulses a little. He 
had elected himself her cavalier, after all. But her 
calm, pale face betrayed no eagerness or excitement. 

‘‘ I must go,” she said, rising. “ They would not give 
me my dinner, else.” , 

‘‘ And you expect to be hungry by and by ? ” 

He eyed her critically as he spoke, beginning to 
admire her composure and self-possession, — qualities 
which he had expected to put to fiight at once in 


AT THE MOUNTAIN MIRROR. 


13 


any country girl whom he might honor with his 
attention. 

“ Most unromantically hungry,” she answered, smiling, 
I always am on May-day.” 

Le Roy lifted his brows. 

“ So this is May-day ? I really thought that had 
been a month ago, when I saw the streets full of young 
Hibernians, with paper wreaths on their bare heads.” 

“Oh, yes,” she replied quietly. “That was May- 
day in New York. It takes most fashions a month to 
travel to Lenox. It is too cold here for flowers to 
bloom on the first of May, and we never call it May- 
day until there are blossoms enough to crown our 
queen. We always make a wreath of violets for Kate, 
and they are less blue than her eyes.” 

“ Queen Katherine and Queen Bess, — I find myself 
among the royal family.” 

She did not answer. She fancied that she detected 
a shade of satire in his tone, and it stung her sensitive 
pride. By this time the rest of the party had all 
started. The three graces had given up Mr. Le Roy 
to Queen Bess very willingly. They were a little 
afraid of him, and found themselves more at ease with 
their village cavaliers. He had cut an alpenstock, as 
he called it, for Elizabeth, and another for himself, 
while they had been talking ; and now they started for 
the climb, just enough behind the .others to be out of 
ear-shot. 

For a while they were both silent. Elizabeth carried 
little of the small coin of society, and she was resolutely 


14 


SOME WOMEN-^S HEARTS. 


on guard. Mr. Le Roy was thinking about her ; just, 
perhaps, on account of her silence. She interested him 
because she was so unlike the women to whom he was 
accustomed; so doubly unlike any one whom he could 
have expected to meet in Lenox. He was used to 
liave women strive to please him, offer perpetual in- 
cense at his shrine, — but this girl was evidently indifter- 
ent with an indifference which he could not believe to 
be assumed. She was gathering flowers and leaves as 
she went on, — a spray of dog-rose, a clump of violets, 
a stalk or two of wild lilies of the valley, anemones, a 
columbine, — he noticed the artistic grace with which 
she grouped them. She walked with a free, grand 
tread. Her voice was cool and clear, her accent per- 
fect. How had it all come ? His wonder culminated 
in a question. 

“Were you born in Lenox, Miss Fordyce?” 

“ Born and bred,” — she answered, lightly, — “ as 
native a product of the soil as these violets. Indeed, 
I have never been out of Berkshire county in my life.” 

“ And, I presume, do not care to go out of it, since 
it has suited you so well ? ” 

His eyes expressed the admiration which something 
in her quiet self-respect forbade him to put into plainer 
language. She smiled. 

“ There, at last, your penetration is at fault. I do 
want very much to go away from Lenox. I should 
want, when I am old, or tired of the world, to come 
back here again, and die under these skies. I think I 
could not rest quietly in my grave, unless I were 


AT THE MOUNTAIN MIRROR, 


15 


buried in the shadow of these Berkshire hills. But in 
the mean time I do long to see something of life. I 
was interested to meet you to-day, because you came 
from the great world outside, and I fancied there would 
be something of its atmosphere about you, making you 
different from the men to whom I am accustomed.” 

“ And you are disappointed ? ” he asked ; and then 
waited for her slow-coming answer with an interest for 
which he mentally scoffed at himself. 

She looked at him thoughtfully and deliberately, 
before she spoke. 

“No, I do not think that I am. You are not just 
what I fancied, but there is something about you which 
IS not of Lenox.” 

He wondered in what respects he had failed to realize 
her conception of him, — whether he were less than she 
had thought, or more, — but he saw no encouragement 
to ask the question in her quiet eyes ; if indeed his own 
pride had not stood as much in the way as her reserve. 
Just then he registered a vow, mentally, that before 
the summer was over he would know just what she 
thought about him, just how much power he could 
gain over her. The affair began, even in this early stage, 
to interest him keenly. 

Do not commit the error of fancying that his heart 
was touched. His cousin had said, you know, that a 
heart had been left out when he was made. However 
that may have been, he certainly had not as yet devel- 
oped any sentiment for Elizabeth Fordyce; but his 
curiosity was thoroughly aroused about her, and his 


16 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


masculine vanity, of which he had no small share, was 
up in arms. Before the summer was over, not only 
would he know her thoughts concerning him, but they 
shoijld be what he pleased to make them. 

The encounter gave new zest to the prospect of his 
summer campaign. He had planned to go to Newport 
later in the season, after his literary work should be 
accomplished ; but there would be time enough for this 
little innocent game of hearts before August. 

Not a single throb of pity moved him, as he watched 
this young, imaginative, fresh-hearted girl standing at 
length on the summit of the Peak, and looking off 
over the landscape, her dark eyes shining, and the 
swift color of excitement staining her cheeks. He 
began to think her really handsome, as he saw her now, 
in contrast with her three cousins, whose beauty had 
been so much more striking at first sight. They were 
‘‘ well-blown,” as he phrased it to himself. The sun 
had treated them as he usually does light-complexioned, 
thin-skinned women. Their delicate little faces were 
flushed and scorched, till they looked like full-blown 
peonies; and there was an unpicturesque disarray 
about their general get-up which certainly put them at 
a sad disadvantage. 

Queen Bess looked as cool as when she started. Her 
white robes were unstained. The flowers in her hands, 
even, were not withered. She stood there, looking off 
towards the world she longed to try, with her wide 
eyes and her glowing cheeks, — an incarnation, surely, 
of pure-hearted, high-souled, graceful womanhood. And 


AT THE MOUNTAIN MIRBOR. 


17 


Elliott Le Roy speculated about the phases of feeling 
through which she should pass before he had done 
with her, as coolly, and analytically, and selfishly, as if 
that fine, strong nature of hers had not held capacities 
for joy and sorrow which he could no more compre- 
hend or measure than one could fathom the ocean with 
a lady’s ribbon. 

The whole party went down the Peak in company, 
after half an hour’s restful enjoyment of the view. Mr. 
Le Roy was thrown with Kate and Bell Fordyce; or 
perhaps he let himself drift into their neighborhood 
just to see if it would pique Elizabeth. It vexed him 
a little to perceive that it did not. She was just as calm 
and bright as when she had climbed up the height at 
his side, — silent for the most part, as she had been then, 
but with a face full of enjoyment, eager eyes which 
swept the landscape, and yet with gentle words and 
attentive air for every one who particularly addressed 
her. “ Wild thing, shy thing,” he called her to himself, 
remembering a line of an old song. Would any one 
ever tame her? Would she ever come and go at any 
man’s best, — lay her heart in any man’s hand ? If so, 
and he were not that man, it would be easy to hate him. 

At the foot of the Peak she sat down again, and 
began to make the violet- wreath for which they had all 
been gathering blossoms, but for whose twining no 
fingers were so deft as her own. Preparations for 
dinner were going on. A fire was kindled amid diffi- 
culties and laughter. A kettle was hung on some 
crossed twigs, and girlish heads bent over baskets and 

B 


18 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


hampers. Mr. Le Roy looked on for a few moments 
without offering his assistance, and then lazily sauntered 
over to Elizabeth. 

“ §0 you don’t help to get dinner ? ” he asked her. 

“No, my part is to make the wreath, and arrange 
the flowers for the vases. I always put out fires when I 
try to kindle them ; and I think I can’t be one of the 
wicked, for whatever I do does not prosper, in a domes- 
tic line, at least.” 

“ I think you could kindle some fires that many 
waters could not quench, neither could the floods 
drown,” Le Roy said, slowly, watching her cheeks 
for a blush which did not come. 

“ Could you get me some water from the spring for 
these vases ? ” she asked, trying her flowers into one of 
them, so coolly that he could not tell whether she had 
comprehended him. 

“ Don’t send me away for cold water,” he said, pathet- 
ically. “ I get enough of that here.” 

Elizabeth laughed. 

“ Oh, you must do something as well as the rest, if 
you want your dinner. Kate is Queen bee, and she 
won’t allow any drones in the hive.” 

“ Cruelty, thy name is Miss Fordyce ! ” he sighed, 
with a dramatic air ; but he took a pitcher and brought 
her the water, notwithstanding. When he came back 
she made a diversion by filling her vases and putting 
them on the table ; and then the crown must be adjusted 
to Kate’s golden head ; and by that time dinner was 
ready. 


AT THE MOUNTAIN MIRROB, 


19 


For the hour or two after the feast fate was unkind 
to Mr. Le Roy. He had no opportunity to get Queen 
Bess to himself ; and he was one of those men for whom 
nothing is so stupid as a general conversation. He re- 
venged himself on fate by doing his utmost to disturb 
the peace of mind of Miss Emmie, the youngest For- 
dyce, by pouring into her ear the most absurd and 
unmitigated flatteries, which she swallowed just as 
children a little younger do candy, regardless of whence 
it comes, but with eager and unsophisticated delight in 
its sweetness. He soon tired of this too easy game, 
and managing to get the ear of his cousin, Mrs. Henry 
Fordyce, the most carelessly good-natured of matrons, 
he asked in an undertone, — “ J ule, would it be any 
harm for me to invite one of those Fordyces to drive 
home with me ? ” 

Mrs. Henry considered a moment. “ I don’t believe 
it would,” she said at length. “ To be sure you never 
saw them till to-day ; but they are my nieces, and you 
are my cousin. No, I don’t see any harm.” 

Of course Elizabeth was the “ one of the Fordyces ” 
whom Ml. Le Roy had in his mind, and wanted to have 
in his wagon. He went up to her, armed with her 
aunt’s approval. 

‘‘ 1 wonder if you would have confidence enough in 
my skill as a whip to trust me to drive you home?” 
he asked, adroitly, as if he were suggesting the only 
possible objection to his arrangement. ‘‘I spoke to 
Julia about it, and she thought you would be safe 
enough. She has sat behind my horse two or three 


20 


SOME WOMEN^S HEABTS. 


times ; but there are not many things of which she is 
afraid” 

Miss Fordyce considered a moment. It was not 
quitq the thing, even in primitive Lenox, to drive 
with a gentleman so nearly a stranger; but then he 
was her aunt’s cousin, and he was an historical philoso- 
pher, or a philosophical historian, she had not found 
out which yet, but she wanted to find out. Yes, she 
would go. 

They started a little earlier than the rest, for they 
found they were agreed in disliking to take other peo- 
ple’s dust ; and it would be equally objectionable to 
lead the cavalcade, and infiict on simple-hearted fol- 
lowers the annoyance they shirked for themselves. So 
they solved the problem by starting half an hour in 
advance of the time appointed ; and though they took 
the longest way home, and made a considerable detour 
even from that, they were standing at the Fordyce 
gate, and quite ready to welcome the three Graces on 
their arrival. 

Soon after they set out, Elizabeth plucked up cour- 
age and asked Mr. Le Roy about his books. He saw 
the eager light in her eyes, and smiled secretly. So it 
was as an author that she was interested in him. That 
might answer for the world, but he chose to make his first 
impression upon her in his private capacity as a man. 

He answered carelessly, — “ My books are not books 
at all. The papers I am writing now may possibly be 
put into book form some time ; but the Bostonians are 
to have the benefit of them first in the shape of lectures 


AT TEE MOUNTAIN MIRBOB, 


21 


before their Lowell Institute, — dull old lectures about 
the history of a certain epoch. For the rest, I’ve only 
written articles for the monthlies and quarterlies, and a 
lecture now and then. Did Cousin Julia delude you 
into thinking me an author, and so make all Lenox 
ready to be shy of me in advance ? ” 

“I don’t know about the delusion. She certainly 
said you were an author, — at least Kate told me so, — 
and I cannot see any thing incorrect in the statement, 
according to your own showing. I suppose Addison 
was none the less an author because his best energies 
were given to a daily paper.” 

“ Oh, if you are going back into the classics, I cry 
quarter. I foresee I shall find you too clever for me.” 

A smile dickered round his lips as he spoke, which 
vexed Elizabeth and made her silent. She was willing 
enough to be laughed with, but it would not be easy 
to win her forgiveness for man or woman who should 
laugh at her. 

They bowled along for a little while under green 
trees over the still country road. Le Koy had under- 
stood her silence, and was thinking how to redeem him- 
self. Presently he said, with a complete assumption of 
frankness, — “I vexed you just now, but you vexed me 
first. My ideal is so high that I feel myself a tyro, and 
it sounds like satire when any one talks to me of auth- 
orship. Let us cry quits and begin again. I have seen 
some really great men. When I was in England I 
heard Eobert Browning talk, and Tennyson. Which 
do you like best ? ” 


22 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


“I don’t know. I think I should say Browning; and 
yet Tennyson has written two verses which move me 
more than almost any others in the language.” 

‘‘ What are they ? ” 

He asked the question in a quiet, matter-of-fact way, 
and she answered it as simply as if she had not been a 
young girl, talking to a man whose fascinations had 
already proved too much for many a woman’s peace : — ^ 

** Oh, let the solid ground 
Not fail beneath my feet, 

Before my life has found 
What some have found so sweet; 

Then let come what come may, 

What matter if I go mad, 

I shall have had my day. 

** Let the sweet heavens endure, 

Not close and darken above me, 

Before I am quite, quite sure 
That there is one to love me ; 

Then let come what come may, 

To a life that has been so sad, 

I shall have had my day.” 

^Jove, how that girl could love!” Le Roy said to 
himself, listening to the quivering voice, watching the 
changeful color. “ I should like to see how she would 
look when once her whole nature was waked up.” 

When her voice died on the air, which seemed to 
hold the echo of its melody a moment after the last 
word was spoken, he looked at her steadily, till the 
clear eyes drooped. 

“You are tempting fate with that prayer. Miss For- 


A COSTLY EXPERIMENT. 


23 


dyce. You stand in the east of your life, and already 
I see the rose of dawning. But you are cool of head, 
if warm of heart, and I think you will not go mad.” 

She did not answer. His longing to tame this “ wild 
thing, shy thing,” was growing on him. I wish Eliza- 
beth had had a mother just then to say a prayer for 
her happiness ; for Elliott Le Roy was a man pitiless as 
death, aud what he longed for he generally attained. 


CHAPTER HI. 

A COSTLY EXPERIMENT. 

Mrs. Henry Fordyce looked out of her window the 
forenoon after the picnic, and saw her handsome elegant 
cousin sauntering in at her gate. She was weak enough 
to feel a little pride in her relationship with him, — in 
his talents, his breeding, his good looks, his grand air, 
his magnificence, generally sjieaking. She knew that 
half Lenox was envying her her kinship with him ; and 
few things are more delightful to a naturally constituted 
woman than those which tempt her erring sisters to 
break the tenth commandment. She received her vis* 
itor with impressment. 

“ I looked for you, Elliott. I thought you were sure 
to come and tell me how you liked Lenox.” 

“What I thought of your husband’s nieces, you 
mean,” he corrected her, with a smile which held a 
little covert satire. 


24 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


“Well ! if you choose to put it in that way. I saw 
that you drove Elizabeth home. Don’t you think the 
others handsomer ? ” 

“ Yes, I suppose so, if they weren’t such duplicates 
of each other. I like individuality.” 

“ They are a good deal alike. People call them ‘ the 
three Graces,’ you know, — or ‘ the handsome Fordyces.’ 
When they say those things, of course they don’t in- 
clude Elizabeth.” 

“ Does that hurt her feelings ? ” 

“How absurd. Would she say so if it did? But 
really I doubt if she cares, she is so full of her day- 
dreams.” 

“ And the others are not dreamers, — real blue and 
gold, flesh and blood. Jule, it is warm, and I am lazy, 
— just in the humor for gossip ; which, after all, men 
like quite as well as women, if only the subject is in- 
teresting. So let me lie back here in this great easy- 
chair, and you tell me about Elizabeth Fordyce. She 
has excited my curiosity, just because she is so unlike 
the rest of them. How is it that she hasn’t the family 
beauty ? ” 

“Why, you see her mother was a Nugent, and that’s 
where the dark eyes and hair, and the reserved, dream- 
ing temperament come from. She’s very like a picture 
I’ve seen of her mother. There’s but little Fordyce 
about her, poor thing.” 

“ It is unlucky, if her face is her fortune ; but perhaps 
she has money ? ” 

“Not a dime of her own. I’ve heard rumors since I 


A COSTLY EXPERIMENT. 


25 


came here that she wasn’t fairly dealt with in that mat- 
ter ; hut Henry wont talk about it. You see her father 
and the uncle she lives with were in business together, 
and just after her father’s death there was some embar- 
rassment about money matters, and the firm came near 
being insolvent. So it was made out, somehow, that 
no money was to come to her ; but then her uncle took 
her home, and has done by her just the same as by his 
own children; so, after all, there is no fault to be 
found. They’ve all been good to her, only I don’t 
think they understand her very well. They say she’s 
queer.” 

“ I suppose she likes her life ? ” he asked, with secret 
curiosity. 

“I don’t quite know. She was eighteen last spring, 
and Kate told me that she had been restless ever since 
to get away and do something for herself. She would 
have gone before now, only that her undo was so op- 
posed. But she has been studying with all her might 
to fit herself to go as a governess at the first good 
opening.” 

Elliott Le Boy smiled at the thought of some of Eliz- 
abeth’s cool, little ways, and crisp, curt speeches. The 
governess element did not appear to him to be very 
strongly developed in her character. Having found out 
all he wanted to know, he got up lazily. 

“ What, you are not going ? ” 

“Yes, I’m afraid I must. It’s a bore, rushing round 
in the sun, and you know, Jule, how I like to sit in 
your coe’ quiet parlor; but I must not ouite forget all 


26 


SOME WOMEN-^S HEARTS, 


social laws even in this Berkshire Arcadia. It becomes 
me to inquire about the health of the Fordyces after 
their picnic.” 

As he walked along, however, it was only one of the 
Fordyces of whom he thought, and that one, Elizabeth. 
He had said to himself, yesterday, “How that girl could 
love ! ” and he was curiously tempted to try the exper- ' 
iment of making her in love with himself. He fancied 
her petulant little ways ; her pretty insubordinations ; 
the shy sweetness of her rare and hard- won tenderness ; 
and then the triumph of her full and free surrender. 
Once it came across his mind that it wouldn’t be so 
very bad a thing to marry her. If he married at all, it 
must be a woman who would not fetter him, — who 
would demand little, and take what he gave, thankfully. 
He had bachelor ways, single-man tastes, which he 
would not be willing to sacrifice to any one. A girl in 
his own set, well posted as to her dues, would not be 
satisfied with any such half conquest. But this “ wild 
thing, shy thing,” would she not be easy to content, 
once that a man had tamed her ? If some one were to 
save her from her governessing career, and surround 
her with elegance and luxury, how gratitude would 
deepen and sweeten her love. 

That reflection, by the way, showed how little he 
really knew of women. Gratitude and love run in 
parallels. There may be room for both in the same 
heart, but they never touch, nor do I see how one can 
deepen the other. 

Mr. Le Hoy laughed, a cynical little laugh, all to 


A COSTLY EXPERIMENT, 


27 


himself, as he came to the Fordyce gate and the end 
of his rerery at the same time. After all, what did he 
want of a girl with whom he certainly was not in love, — 
who, at best, would be more or less of an incumbrance ? 
Still, it was only Miss Elizabeth Fordyce for whom he 
asked at the door ; though the rest might be supposed 
to hold equal claims upon his courtesy. 

He was shown into a little room which, by tacit 
consent, had been abandoned to Elizabeth. It was 
furnished with quaint, old-fashioned furniture, which 
had been her mother’s. A bookcase, well filled, was 
one of its adornments. Ivy-vines had been trained 
over the windows, into leafy cornices for the soft, white 
muslin curtains. The few chairs were all easy-chairs. 
The windows were open, but Elizabeth had a Southern 
temperament, and liked warmth, so there was a little 
grate with a tiny soft-coal fire, clear and bright ; and, 
near the fire, her delicate cheeks flushed by its glow, 
sat Elizabeth. She had no means to make expensive 
toilets, but she had the tact to make effective ones. Her 
dress was white, with violet ribbons; and a violet 
odor floated out from her filmy handkerchief. Her eyes 
kindled when she met Mr. Le Roy, and then drooped 
again; and her visitor took in the whole picture, — 
room and furnishings, and graceful woman, — and 
scoffed at Lenox for not having found out, before 
this, who was the handsome Fordyce. 

The shy eagerness of her .welcome charmed him. 
He sat down beside her, and began to talk to her about 
some of the books lying on her table. He found that 


28 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


she had both read and thought, though her high esti- 
mate of his ability made her diffident of expressing her 
own ideas. Once or twice, however, she flashed into 
passionate earnestness. Once was when he took up a 
volume of Goethe. 

“ So you like the grand old German ? ” he said. 

Like him ! ” The dark, gray eyes flashed, the cheeks 
flamed. “ Mr. Le Roy, I hate him ! ” 

‘‘ I presume you do not question his genius ? ” 

The more genius, the more shame ! ” she cried, hotly. 
‘‘A man that could coolly go to work to win one 
woman’s heart after another, just to see how love 
would afiect each difierent type, and then throw them 
away like squeezed oranges. I try to think good will 
always triumph over evil, in the end ; but I have often 
wondered whether there were soul enough in that man 
to be worth saving. Mind he had plenty of ; but it is 
not mind to which the saving promise of immortality is 
given.” 

So you think trifling with a woman’s heart is the 
unpardonable sin ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” she said, slowly. God forbid that 
I should pronounce any soul’s sentence. Still, I know 
but one worse crime in a man than winning a woman’s 
heart for pastime.” 

“What is that? Your code of morals interests 
me.” 

“ To marry a wife without loving her,” she answered, 
in a still, controlled voice, but with cheeks and eyes 
aflame. “When a woman found herself trifled with 


A COSTLY EXPERIMENT 


29 


and deserted, pride might come to her rescue, and her 
day and chance for happiness might not be quite over, 
— for, romance about it how we may, women, and men 
too, do sometimes love more than once. But, deceived 
into a loveless marriage, what is there for the wife 
to do but to die? I think I could never forgive that 
wrong on earth or in Heaven.” 

“ How if a woman marries a man without loving 
him?” 

“ She wrongs him, surely ; and her own soul yet 
more. But the cases are not parallel. Love is not so 
vital to a man ; and, besides, I firmly believe that any 
husband who has married a wife with a free heart can 
win her love if he tries.” 

‘‘ Your experience must have been very limited ; how 
have you formed your theories of life ? ” he asked her 
wonderingly. 

“ They are only theories, as you say. I cannot tell 
how they would stand contact with actual life. But 
they were strong enough to make me hate Goethe.” 

She rounded her sentence with a smile, and then 
took up some delicate sewing, and began stitching on 
it, as if she considered the discussion finished. 

Mr. Le Roy drew ‘‘Men and Women” from his 
pocket, and opened it first to “ Evelyn Hope ; ” that 
hopefullest poem of love and woe which poet ever 
penned. Afterwards he turned a few pages to the 
“Toccata of Galluppi’s,” an(J read it through. Two 
lines stayed with Elizabeth, and kept her company 
long after he had bidden her good-morning, and gone 
away, — 


so 


SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS. 


** Some with lives that come to nothing, some with deeds as well 
undone, 

Death came tacitly, and took them where they never see the sun.” 

Would her life come to nothing? Was she one of 
the “ butterflies ” to ‘‘ dread extinction ” ? Her exist- 
exrce, just then, seemed laid upon her as a burden, not 
given her as a blessing. 

Elliott Le Roy went out again into the June sun- 
light. He was becoming singularly interested in 
Elizabeth ; but it was precisely in the Goethe fashion 
of wishing to try experiments with her. 

“ It would almost pay to marry her,” he said to 
himself, with his cool little laugh, “just to see what 
kind of wife she would make. She talked desperately 
and defiantly enough, but she would be very submis- 
sive, I think, when she couldn’t help herself. It’s the 
way with these high-mettled, true-blooded creatures, 
whether horses or women. Once well-broken to har- 
ness, and there’s no end to their faithfulness and 
submission. I’d trust her. But she wouldn’t give away 
that heart of hers in a day.” 

He walked on, switching ofi* dandelion-heads with 
his light walking-stick. Lenox was more exciting than 
he had expected. Perhaps he could not make Elizabeth 
care for him, even if he tried ; but at that thought he 
smiled a little scornfully to himself. He had found 
women so far very easy to win, though he had won 
them not to wear, hitherto. So far in life he had loved 
and ridden away ; but curiously enough he did not for 
a moment contemplate pursuing this course with Eliza- 


A COSTLY EXPERIMENT. 


31 


beth. If he won her heart he quite understood that he 
must pay the legitimate price for his triumph. Nor 
did this prospect very much trouble him. Partly be- 
cause — come how those things may — she was so essen- 
tially thorough-bred that he could trust her to be equal 
to any position in w^hich he might place her; and 
partly — though this was unacknowledged to himself — 
because even his Mephistophelian nature was not 
wholly fi'ee from the human longing to be loved, to 
have one human creature to say a prayer for him if he 
were in peril, or drop a tear for him if he were dead. 
I think, too, that even this man of the world would 
not have been quite bold enough deliberately to 
resolve on trifling with such a “ being of spirit, and 
fire, and dew,” as Elizabeth. 

Still, whether in the character of trifler or man in 
earnest, he went day after day to the Fordyce dwelling. 
He read to Elizabeth, and talked to her. The country 
ways learned to know his horse’s footsteps, and the peo- 
ple, for a radius of ten miles round the village, grew 
familiar with the handsome, haughty face of the horse’s 
master, and the slight, dark-haired girl beside him. 

Elizabeth’s soul was in a strange tumult. All of life 
had become savorless to her except the hours when he 
was beside her ; and yet with him she was never quite 
happy or at ease. She wished in one breath that she 
had never seen him ; while in the next she shivered at 
the thought of what Lenox would be when summer and 
he had taken flight together. 

“ Do you love me, Elizabeth ? ” 


32 


SOME WOMEN-^S HEARTS. 


He asked her this one day, in a half-reckless mood ; 
piqued to do it, perhaps, by her inscrutable self-posses- 
sion. It was six weeks after the picnic, — six weeks 
during which there had not been a single day when 
they had not met. In August he was to go to New- 
port ; and now it was the middle of July. They had 
been talking of this, and it had seemed to her as if some- 
thing tight round her heart were strangling it. She 
sat silent, because she had not self-control enough to 
speak calmly ; and into this silence his question fell, — 
“ Do you love me, Elizabeth ? ” 

She grew very pale, and her voice shook as she an- 
swered, — “ God help me, I do not know. I never cared 
for any one else, and I don’t want to part with you ; 
but I had thought love was something more, or different. 
Can’t you help me to understand myself, Mr. Le Roy ? ” 
The soft pleading in her eyes moved him. Her help- 
lessness was so appealing, her voice so faltering, her 
face so pale and sweet, that Elliott Le Roy came 
nearer to loving her in that moment than ever he had 
before. He took her close into his arms, and kissed 
her, — a long, silent kiss, — his first. He felt something, 
but I think he feigned more ; for his was a nature to 
which shams fitted themselves as a garment. 

‘‘ I think you do love me, Elizabeth. Is it not so ? ” 
With his eyes and lips on hers, the whole magnetism 
of his nature swaying her towards him, she answered 
under her breath, — “ If you care for my love, Mr. Le 
Roy, I think you can keep it.” 

And in saying this she told him neither more nor less 


A COSTLY EXPERIMENT, 


38 


than the truth. If he had honestly loved her^ honestly 
cared for her love, it would never have failed him. 
She did not yet know herself ; but he had all things in 
his favor. He satisfied her pride, — he fulfilled the de^ 
mands of her taste, — her heart might easily be his by 
right of discovery, if he chose to enter in and take pos- 
session. 

Would he choose? 

For a moment a vague longing for the possible sweet- 
ness there might be in a true love, a true home, came 
over him, and his manner was very tender. 

‘‘ Shall I be a grand dame enough for your sphere in 
life ? ” Elizabeth asked humbly. 

“ If I had not thought my rose perfect, should I have 
tried to gather it ? ” he said in answer. “ There are 
other flowers in other gardens, — I have chosen here.” 

He had not said one word about his love for her, but 
Elizabeth had not noticed the omission. Kor had he left 
such words unsaid from any conscientious scruples, any 
doubts of himself, but simply because they did not come 
naturally . to him. He was not an affectionate man ; 
and just here was the reef on which, had all her skies 
been fair, all her winds favoring, Elizabeth was sure, 
soon or late, to come to woe. 

Underneath all her delicate shyness, her nature was 
tenderly afiectionate, and, where she deeply loved, very 
demonstrative as well. She would never have wearied 
of the manifestations of affection ; while to be fond and 
caressing, or even to endure such things patiently for 
any length of time, was not in Le Roy’s mental const!- 
2 ^ 


c 


34 


SOME WOMEN-^S HEABTS. 


tution. Elizabeth s instinctive and refined womanliness 
was sure to keep her from wearying any man with un- 
sought caresses ; but it offered her no security against 
that hunger of the heart of which one dies at last, just 
as surely as of bodily famine. 

The time for discovering this lack had not yet come, 
and she fancied herself very happy as she sat at Le 
Roy’s side, and heard him tell how she had interested 
him from the first. Nor was he insincere in this talk. 
If I have given you the impression that he was a man 
with no good qualities, no tender human feeling, no 
respect for moral obligations, I have failed to render 
him to you fairly. The trouble about correctly under- 
standing people is that there are no pure temperaments ; 
no one is altogether bad or altogether good. The bad 
preponderates fearfully in some natures ; but no man is 
left to live on earth when he is quite a devil, or fails of 
translation when he is all a saint. 

Sitting beside Elizabeth, in those first hours after he 
had won her, Le Roy certainly felt a tenderness for her, 
a real interest in her, which he had never experienced 
for a woman before. It was far enough from the grand, 
self-sacrificing devotion of a nobler man ; but it was the 
best he had to give, — let us do him justice. 

As for Elizabeth, thinking of her in those hours, one 
wishes over again that she could only have had a pure, 
wise, good mother. Poor child ! She was not in one 
sense ignorant. She had read and thcjught in her way, 
and framed her fine-spun theories, but she knew so 
sadly little of her own heart. 


HER MANACLE. 


35 


And this engagement was but the type of half those 
formed by young girls of eighteen the country over. 
They do not guess what true love is or should be, — 
they mistake for it their first heart-flutter, — they do 
not comprehend their own natures, or divine what they 
will need when they come to the full stature of their 
womanhood ; and yet they are very honest, and mean 
all they say when they utter, in their ignorance, that 
solemn vow which neither Heaven nor man could help 
them to keep, until Heaven or man should be able to 
make the sun move back on his course, or the streams 
flow upwards towards the mountain tops. 


CHAPTER IV. 

HEK MANACLE. 

The next day, after the understanding arrived at in the 
last chapter, was Thursday; and Mr. Le Roy started 
for New York in the morning. Friday afternoon, the 
last train brought him back again, and he went over in 
the gloaming to see Elizabeth. She trembled a little 
when he came to her side. It gave her a curious feel- 
ing to meet again, after his brief absence, this man, in 
whose hands her future lay. The agitation of her 
manner made him think of the fluttering of some newly 
caught woodland bird. He called her again, in his 
thought, his “ wild thing, shy thing,” and experienced 


3b 


SOME WOMEN-'S HEARTS, 


some of the pleasant excitement he had expected to feel 
in her capture. 

“ Did you know you were to wear my fetter ? ” he 
asked after a while. ‘‘ I went to ^^ew York partly for 
the purpose of providing myself with a manacle for 
your securer binding.” 

“ I think I shall not want to run away if you are 
good to me,” she said, in a low, shy tone. 

“ And I, you see, do not mean you shall run away, 
whether or no. I shall hold on to you like Fate.” 

He laughed as he spoke ; but he and she, in those 
two sentences, had unconsciously struck the key-note 
of their two lives. 

The ring he put upon her finger was the conven- 
tional diamond solitaire, but unusually large and bril- 
liant, for Le Roy was rich, and not niggardly. Elizabeth 
had the intense love for beautiful things, which inheres 
in such temperaments as hers ; but the ring, handsome 
as it was, gave her a singular feeling of discomfort. It 
seemed to watch her, like a great, fiery eye. She felt 
as if, in some subtle, inexplicable way, that eye were 
her keeper. She was never quite the same self-willed, 
independent girl after she wore it. It was as though, 
like a conquered fort, she had given up her defences, and 
hung out now the colors of the enemy. Rot that she 
allowed these thoughts any room in her consciousness. 
She imagined herself very happy indeed, only some 
occult influence had changed her from her old self. 

Perhaps, as the days went on, Le Roy may have felt 
this subtle change. At any rate, the two weeks which 


HER MANACLE, 


37 


followed his betrothal were duller than he had ex- 
pected. Some sauce piquante was wanting. He was 
precisely one of those men, to whom the chief charm 
of any object consists in the winning of it, — once his, 
it was apt to pall upon his fancy. For six weeks past 
there had been a certain kind of excitement about long 
morning sessions in Elizabeth’s little parlor, listening to 
and drawing out her quaint fancies and crude theories, 
afternoon rides behind his high-stepping horse, and 
evening linge rings under moon and stars, amid falling 
dew, and air heavy with summer odors. But now, that 
all these things were orthodox, and he knew that it 
was expected of him to j)ass a good share of his days at 
Elizabeth’s side, he began to grow tired of it all. He 
thought of the little girl in Sydney Dobell’s song, who 
asked, — 

Is she changed, do you think, papa ? 

Or did I dream she was brighter before ? ** 

and would have liked to pat the aforesaid little girl 
on the head for expressing his idea so well. Still, he 
contrived to satisfy all Elizabeth’s demands, — partly, 
perhaps, because she knew so little of the ordinary 
ways of love and lovers. Then, too, her nature was 
generous, and not exacting. Moreover, she had logi- 
cal foundation for an entire faith in him. She had 
neither fortune nor social influence, nor did she think 
herself in the least handsome. She thought, therefore, 
that the love which had sought her out, in spite of all 
these disadvantages, must be deep, if silent. So she 
Avent on, fancying herself altogether happy ; but some- 


88 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


thing had changed about her, she knew not what. She 
was quiet and submissive to an authority, recognized, if 
new ; and, after all, the tamer had nothing to tame. It 
was a household bird, which came and went at his 
call, and wore his manacle willingly, but he could not 
farlcy her his “ wild thing, shy thing,” any more. 

One day, in the first week of August, he stopped at 
his Cousin Julia’s on his way to Elizabeth. 

“ I am off for Newport to-morrow, Jule,” he said, 
when she came into the room, “ and I thought I’d look 
in on you a few moments before I went away.” 

“ Are you off with Elizabeth ? ” 

“ No ; without her.” 

“You know what I mean, — is it all over between 
you ? ” 

Le Roy laughed. “ Oh, no ; it is all impending. I 
want to be married the last of October. I hate bridal 
tours, and all similar exhibitions of one’s self to the 
million ; so I want the wedding just when it will be 
pleasant to go back to town. Elizabeth will have 
enough to do in the mean time, and there is no reason 
why I shouldn’t have my usual five or six weeks at 
Newport.” 

Mrs. Henry Fordyce looked at him for a silent mo- 
ment ; then she said, with an expressive lift of her eye- 
brows, — “ Upon my word, you are a cool lover. But 
Queen Bess can’t blame me, whatever comes. I told 
the Fordyces, before they ever saw you, that your 
heart was left out.” 

“ If that be true of me, you will at least acknowledge 


HER MANACLE. 


39 


that I did well to select a wife who will not demand 
that I should dance perpetual attendance upon her. 
Elizabeth knows little of the ways of the world ; and, 
thank God, she is neither exacting nor demonstrative.” 

“^Teither exacting nor demonstrative, is she? El- 
liott, I quite understand the estimate you put upon my 
penetration ; but, trust me, if that is your opinion, I 
know Elizabeth Fordyce better than you do.” 

A sarcastic smile crossed Le Roy’s lips, but he sup- 
})ressed it before it had time to rouse his cousin’s ire, 
and said, with the air of one willing to listen to rea-. 
son, — “You may be more than half right ; but at any 
rate, the thing is done, and I came this morning to ask 
your aid towards its being well done. If I have some- 
times questioned your penetration, you know I have 
never questioned your taste. The future Mrs. Le Roy 
will not be a woman of fashion ; but some society she 
must see, and I am unwilling to be mortified by her 
toilets. You have lived in New York so long that 
you will understand just what she ought to have. I 
want you to help her with her preparations. Suppose 
you go down with her next week, and arrange about 
dressmakers, and the like. I will give you some blank 
checks, and you must see that she has every thing 
which she needs.” 

• “ But how will Elizabeth like this supervision ? ” 

“I will make that all right with her. Of course 
I don’t mean that her taste is to be set aside in the mat- 
ter ; only you must tell her what and how much she 
requires, and make sure that she has it.” 


40 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


Elizabeth swallowed a little pang at the announce- 
ment of her lover’s approaching departure. She did 
not speak just at first, but he saw a quiver of pain fiut- 
ter round her sensitive mouth, and I think he was 
human enough not to be sorry that she would regret 
him. 

“ I thought you understood all that, dear,” he said, 
kindly. ‘‘My plans have been made for this sojourn at 
Newport from the first. I am to meet a party of friends 
there. It was an arrangement before I left New York. 
It will give you all the more time for your preparations 
The last of October I want to take you home.” 

“ My preparations will not be much,” she said, a red 
spot burning on either cheek. 

“But I want them to be a good deal. Mrs. Le Roy 
will not be shut up in a convent, and I want her 
properly made ready for presentation to her husband’s 
friends. I have been talking to Julia about it this 
morning. She will go to New York with you, and 
help you shop. To save you trouble, I have left the 
sinews of war in her hands, and she will see to all the 
bills.” 

“ But, Elliott,” — she called his name very timidly, 
for she had not spoken it often, — “I don’t like you 
to do this. I should feel so much happier if you would 
just let me have what my uncle chooses to give me, 
until — afterwards.” 

He silenced the pleading lips with a kiss. 

“ I want you to be prepared for afterwards,” he said, 
resolutely, though not unkindly. “ If you are ready to 


HER MANACLE, 


41 


give yourself to me, and let me take care of you for 
life, surely you need not oppose my pleasure in this 
trifle.” 

She looked at the great diamond eye glittering on 
her finger, — her manacle. The color came and went 
in her cheeks. She shut her lips firmly to keep them 
from betraying her by their quivering. Her eyes grew 
moist. A tenderer, more generous man would have 
understood her well enough to spare her this humilia- 
tion ; but Elliott Le Roy was not tender, or in any 
large sense generous, and he silently waited for her 
acquiescence. She did not venture to blame him, even 
in her heart. He did not know how she felt, and of 
course it was not to be expected that he would. And 
perhaps, after all, he had a certain right to make sure 
that she would not mortify him. So she said at last, 
very quietly, — “I will give up my own will in the 
matter to yours, and do as you and Aunt Julia tell me ; 
but I wish you had not desired this thing.” 

He ignored the last part of her sentence altogether, 
and only thanked her for being such a good, sensible 
little girl, just as he had felt sure she would be, when 
she came to consider. 

After all, the weeks of his absence passed quickly. 
It was not in the heart of woman, least of all such a 
beauty-loving woman as Elizabeth, not to be interested 
in all the elegant things which were purchased so 
lavishly for the future Mrs. Le Roy. Ror, indeed, was 
she quite enough in love to have her lover’s absence 
take away all the brightness from her life. She under- 


42 


SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS. 


stood herself so little that she was not conscious of any 
lack in her experiences ; but there were depths in her 
nature which Elliott Le Roy, let him love her never so 
well, could not have sounded. And yet, if he had 
loved her generously and fondly, she would have gone 
through life beside him, and he would never have 
lacked any thing in her eyes. It is almost always easy 
for even a man, who is not the right man, to hold a 
woman’s heart, if he will but love her enough. 

Twice a week Le Roy wrote to her, and she was 
very proud of his letters. They were not love-letters, 
though he always addressed her as the one to whom his 
future belonged ; but they were very brilliant letters, 
full of wit, and observation, and satire. She was proud 
that he should thus give her of his best;, and her 
answers, though she was not vain enough to perceive 
it, paid him back his own coin with usury. Eliza- 
beth, in her modesty, had never understood her own 
capacities ; but Le Roy began to discover, during this 
correspondence, that it would be in her power to dispute 
the bays with him on his own ground, if she chose. 

Early in September he came to see her for a day, and 
admired the progress of her trousseau, delighting Mrs. 
Henry Fordyce with his unqualified approval. He 
gave her at this time a second commission, — brides- 
maid dresses of the loveliest blue silk for the “ three 
Graces.” 

“Hot white?” she asked; for colored dresses were 
less in vogue for bridesmaids then than they are now. 

“ Decidedly not white,” he answered. “ White is 


HER MANACLE. 


43 


for Elizabeth, alone. They will be grouped around 
her, and it is my fancy to have my pearl set in tur- 
quoise.” 

Elizabeth 'opened her gray eyes a little wider when 
he told her that his absence was to be still farther 
prolonged. He was going to the White Mountains 
with the same friends whom he had joined at Newport. 
She did not utter a word in opposition; but he an- 
swered the unspoken protest in her eyes. 

“ You are busy, my Queen, and I should only be in 
your way. Besides, you know these are my last months 
for enjoying myself en gar^onP 

She looked at him gravely. “ Am I to be a burden 
to you, Mr. Le Roy, — to stand in the way of your 
enjoyment ? ” 

“Not at all, foolish girl; only to change its nature a 
little, perhaps ; ” but he thought to himself as he 
spoke, that even this last was extremely unlikely to 
happen. 

So he went away again, and the preparations went on. 

He extended his trip into Canada, and was gone a 
week or two longer than he expected. Then there 
were arrangements to be made in New York for the 
reception of the bride in her new home ; so that some- 
how October was over before a positive time could be 
fixed for the wedding; and it came off at last, on a 
November morning, gloomy and despondent, which of 
itself seemed to Elizabeth’s imagination to presage ill. 

The “ three Graces,” having made their own toilets 
at an earlier hour, assisted at the bride’s, by their pres- 


44 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


ence and comments ; but a quiet little dressmaker, who 
had set most of the stitches in the white robes, put them 
on. Elizabeth stood up at last, fair and pale as a snow 
image, with a wonderful radiance of shimmering silk 
and falling lace about her. Mr. Le Roy came to look 
at her before her uncle took her to church; his most 
gallant, debonair self, on this occasion, quite ready to 
pay her compliments. 

“ Am I all right ? ” she asked him, a little anxiously. 

“ If the other Queen Bess had been a tithe as fair 
she would never have died unwedded. But you look 
like a wraith, — unreal, illusive. Will you ‘ slip like a 
shadow, a dream, from my hands ’ ? ” 

“Not now,” she answered. “If you should tire of 
me, by and by, who knows what I would do ? ” 

“ Well, at least you shall wait for that,” and then he 
took her in his arms, and kissed her for the last time as 
Elizabeth Fordyce. Did his kiss lack any thing, or did 
some secret whisper of destiny make itself heard just 
then in her soul ? She clung to him an instant, in a 
strange passion of emotion ; was it regret for the well- 
known past, or dread of the untried future, — who 
knows ? She only said, — “I shall have no one in the 
whole world an hour hence but you. God help us if 
we are making a mistake ! ” 


Elizabeth Le Roy came out of the church, where 
she had stood, a pale pearl, among her cousins, 
brave in blue and gold and in their young, strong, 
healthy beauty, whose brilliance no sentimental sor- 


EEB MANACLE. 


45 


rows would ever dim, — among them, but not of them, 
as she had been for so many years. She came out, 
leaning on her husband’s arm, and the keen, pene- 
trating November air seemed to strike to her heart 
with a sudden chill. 

She had speculated sometimes, as what girl does not, 
in her dreaming girlhood, about her wedding morning ; 
but somehow her fancies had never been any thing like 
this reality. Still she tried to believe that she was not 
only very prosperous, but very happy. 

Mr. Le Roy, wealthy, elegant, critical, had chosen 
her, — her, out of the world full of women he knew. 
He was going to take her from the stillness and in- 
action of which in those long, dreamy years her very 
soul had grown tired, and carry her into* the thick of 
life, — such a life of stir, and tumult, and endeavor as 
she had longed to try. What did it mean, that fate 
should so have filled her cup to the brim ? Why, to 
her of all others, had this brilliant destiny opened? 
And what ailed her, that she was not fuller of self- 
gratulation, that she could take it so quietly? 

They went home, and ate bride-cake, and drank 
champagne ; and then Elizabeth went away to take off 
her misty robes. One last look her husband had of her 
in those garments, as she turned at the foot of the stairs 
to speak to him, her drapery, white and fieecy as 
a cloud, falling about her, — a tall, slim shape, with 
gleaming eyes, and hair of silken dusk, and face of 
lilies not roses, save where the lips had budded red. 
She looked too much like a spirit. Le Roy was glad 


46 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


when she came back again in her travelling dress, and 
they went away. 

He had been quite ready to fulfil his engagement 
with Elizabeth, rash and ill-considered as in his secret 
soul he had already begun to think it ; but the whole 
matter of the wedding had bored him, and he was glad 
to be done with it. He had not enough of faith or 
spiritual insight to have the words of the marriage ser- 
vice impress him with their solemnity, or even touch 
him by their beauty. It was simply a necessary evil, 
with which he was thankful to be done. He was re- 
joiced that Elizabeth did not cry. It was like her good 
sense, he thought. But, indeed, she had not loved 
any of the Fordyces enough to melt into tears over 
them. The hills, as lonely as herself, were the friends 
to whom her heart was knit the most closely : and as 
she stood at the old window for a few silent moments, 
looking out towards them, over her eyes there “ began 
to move something which felt like tears.” But she 
turned away resolutely. She was bidding them and 
her past good-by. Who knew what heights of joy, 
what depths of woe, her soul would touch before she 
should see those hills again? 

Their long car ride was a strange bridal journey. 
During those monotonous hours, Elizabeth had plenty 
of leisure to think of what she had done. Now and 
then she stole a look at her companion’s handsome, in- 
scrutable face, as he bent over the newspapers with 
which he had provided himself at the second station. 
It did not cross her mind that he was an uncommonly 


HEB MANACLE. 


47 


inattentive bridegroom. She knew very little of the 
world’s usages. She had never been accustomed to be 
watched and tended, and she did not expect very much 
in that way even from him ; but she would have liked 
him to talk to her a little, to satisfy her doubts of her- 
self, if such satisfaction were possible. She was suffer- 
ing, as she rode along, from a singular oppression, — a 
dread, lest she should not be elegant enough to please 
him, — should shame him by her ignorance of the ways 
of that world in which he moved. 

She struggled with these doubts and fears in silence, 
for it was not her nature to make much ado about her 
feelings. She had always borne whatever she had to 
bear without 'words. A woman more exacting, more 
accustomed to be an object of interest, would have 
demanded Le Roy’s attention, told him her thoughts, 
constrained him to soothe or reassure her. It is possi- 
ble that this course would have suited him better, 
though he did not understand himself well enough to 
think so. At least, it would have given him an interest 
of some kind in the affair, and an occupation. As it 
was, he began to feel himself ennuied. He would have 
liked to think it a respectable proceeding to take him- 
self off to the smoking-car, and enjoy a cigar or two in 
peace. Since this would not quite do, he began to 
watch Elizabeth covertly over the edge of his paper. 

She was always handsomest when she talked. Now 
her face was colorless and motionless, and it lacked that 
perfect classical regularity which makes repose statu- 
esque. The excitement of capture was all over. His 


48 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


“ wild thing, shy thing,” had been curiously tame and 
submissive ever since she had worn his ring on her 
finger. He felt in his heart that he might be tempted 
by too much submission to become a tyrant, and he 
wondered if the instinct of serfdom belonged to Eliza- 
beth. He was destined to find out some day. 

He asked himself, in a vague discontent, to what end 
he had hastened their marriage. Why could they not 
have remained engaged for a few years ? Then he re- 
membered that he had felt impelled to hurry matters 
because Elizabeth had had it in her mind to go out gov- 
ernessing, and plumed himself anew on the right he had 
earned to her gratitude, by having saved her from this 
career. At length, out of very shame, he roused him- 
self from this train of thought, and pointed out to his 
wife some familiar object. They were nearing Hew 
York. 

Elizabeth had understood from Mrs. Henry Fordyce, 
that Mr. Le Roy had a handsome establishment, but 
she was hardly prepared for the quiet elegance of the 
house on Madison Square to which he took her. A 
housekeeper, stately in black silk, received them ; and 
Le Roy, bidding his wife welcome home, with more of 
tenderness than he had shown her at any time during 
the journey, told her that Mrs. Murray had managed 
his household for years in a way that could hardly be 
improved; therefore, there would be nothing for the 
new queen to busy herself about but her own pleasure, 
— the prime minister behind the throne would take all 
trouble off her hands. 


HEB MANACLE. 


49 


Whether or not she liked this arrangement, Eliza- 
beth submitted to it silently. Mrs. Murray led her up- 
stairs to her own room, — a spacious chamber, — from 
which opened on one side an elegant sitting-room, on the 
other, Mr. Le Roy’s dressing-room. Strangely enough, 
a passage from the Bible came into her mind at that 
moment, — All these things will I give thee if thou 
wilt fall down and worship me.” 

Just then, in a rush of enthusiastic emotion, she 
thought it would be only too easy for her to worship 
her elegant, handsome husband, from whom all her good 
gifts came. She felt a new thrill of tender thankfulness 
for the love which had elected her to share the half of 
this man’s kingdom, which brought to her eyes some 
silent tears. If she had married him with any thing 
short of the entire consecration of her whole being, she 
had erred from pure ignorance of her own nature. But 
if either this man or this woman had loved with that 
unqualified surrender of self, which is so entire and so 
holy, that it is little less than religion, and which is so 
mighty that, felt on one side only, it has before now 
made of marriage a saving ordinance, I should not have 
had my story to tell. 


50 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


CHAPTER V. 

AFTER FIVE YEARS. 

Five years had gone by, — years which the locusts 
had eaten, as they say in Provence, — aimless, profitless 
years, which yet had brought Elizabeth from eighteen 
to twenty-three, and wrought, I was about to say, some 
subtile changes in her character. But I correct myself. 
I think all our possibilities are latent in us from our 
birth. Most of us are many-sided, and circumstance, 
like the turn of a wheel, brings uppermost now one side 
of us, now another. Elizabeth Le Roy fancied that she 
was not what Elizabeth Fordyce had been, but then 
Elizabeth Fordyce had not known herself. 

Of these five years she had kept no record. Eliza- 
beth was not the kind of woman who keeps a diary. 
She could not ease her pain by spreading it over reams 
of paper ; or by self-pity solace herself into a sort of 
luxury of woe, practically almost as desirable as happi- 
ness. The long, slow years had eaten into her life, but 
she had made no sign. Some scenes were seared upon 
her soul, — some words burned into her heart so deeply 
that she thought not even the river of Death could 
wash them away ; but neither the world nor even her 
own household knew her as any thing but a prosperous, 
elegant, haughty, silent woman. Only Elliott Le Roy 
knew that the Queen Bess he found in Lenox had been 


AFTER FIVE TEARS, 


61 


neither haughty nor silent. Did he ever think with a 
pang of regret of the vanished girlish sweetness ? 

She came downstairs, on the fifth anniversary of her 
marriage, with her toilette carefully made, as usual. 
Her soft, heavy black silk trailed after her soundlessly 
as she walked. Dainty laces made a white mist at 
throat and wrists ; her jewels were pearls, quaintly set. 
She had a singular charm for the eye, though she was 
not, never had been, a beauty, as her husband had once 
told her. It was the only outbreak of coarse sincerity 
in which he had ever indulged, — the only time vulgar 
truth had come, strong and passionate, to his elegant 
lips. They had been married scarcely two years then ; 
and Elizabeth had not yet lost her faith in his love. 
From the first he had left her a great deal to herself, 
and she had almost always borne his absence patiently ; 
but this one time it entered her mind to remonstrate. 
He was going away on a pleasure trip, and she begged 
him either to stay at home, or to take her with him, with 
an exacting earnestness to which she had never accus- 
tomed him, and which some brutal instinct, rising to 
the surface and overpowering his suave polish of man- 
ner, impelled him to put down at once. 

It is certainly not my fault, Mrs. Le Roy, if you are 
poorly entertained,” he said, coolly. “You have at 
your disposal your time and my money. As my wife, 
society is open to you.” 

“But I am not your wife for the sake of society,” she 
had persisted. “For w'hat did you marry me, if you 
did not care to have me with you, — it* our lives were to 
be apart ? ” 


52 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


All that was demonic in Le Roy’s nature, and that 
was no little, looked for a moment out of his eyes in 
contemptuous silence, then burst from his lips. “ By 
Heaven, what did I? What summer day’s madness 
was it which made me fetter myself to a woman not 
rich, or distinguished, or even handsome ? ” 

She thought, for an instant, that she should fall help- 
less at his feet ; then pride brought the color back to 
cheek and lips. 

“So you did not love me ? ” she asked, slowly. 

“ Did I ? — I have forgotten.’' 

The words stung her with their contempt, till cheeks 
and lips grew white again ; not with faintness this time, 
but with a white heat of passion. 

“ I told you once,” she said, speaking each word with 
slow distinctness, “ that for a man to marry a woman 
without loving her, was a crime which I, for one, would 
never forgive, on earth or in Heaven.” 

Le Roy looked at her, and feared the spirit he had 
roused. He would have given a good deal to unsay 
his own words. As it was, he could only eat them. 
He spoke more hurriedly than was his wont. 

“ Elizabeth, we are behaving like two children. If I 
had not loved you, why on earth should I have chosen 
you ? If I loved you once, is it likely to be entirely 
over in two years ? Don’t exasperate me into saying 
things which will cause ill-blood between us. You take 
the surest way to wear my love out when you are ex- 
acting, and make me feel my chains. Remember how 
free a life I had led before I knew you.” 


AFTER FIVE YEARS. 


53 


And she, proud woman that she was, feeling herself 
altogether his, too reserved and too self-respecting to 
turn anywhere else for comfort, altogether helpless in 
her dependence upon him, suffered him to seal a hollow 
truce upon her lips ; but after that day she never again 
urged him to stay at home. 

Since then she had been three years his wife, — just 
as entirely his, subject to his pleasure, bound to hold 
up his honor, as if they had loved each other with 
that love which makes marriage a sacrament. She 
almost hated herself when she thought of it. And now 
it was the fifth anniversary of those mistaken nuptials. 

The last three years had gone by her like a long and 
evil dream. That one outbreak on her husband’s part 
had never been followed by any other. He had treated 
her with all outward courtesy ; but he was like the 
French chevalier who killed more men in duels than 
any other beau sabreur of his time, and who always 
smiled as he slew. Ho chronicle, had she kept never 
so many, could have recorded the times when she felt 
the merciless pressure of the iron hand under the velvet 
glove, — when his keen scorn struck home to her 
heart ; his merciless politeness froze her ; his forgetful- 
ness, which seemed born of contempt, goaded her to 
madness. 

Sometimes she had prayed to die, with a passion 
which it seemed should have opened Heaven ; but not 
even Death wanted her. 

After a long time, suffering seemed to have deadened 
her nature. Le Roy came and went, and she scarcely 


54 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


knew it. Sometimes he talked to her, but his words 
were vague to her as dreams, — polite, inquiring, 
sneering, it mattered not, — they made no impression. 
She ceased to shrink, even on the rare occasions when 
his lips touched her mouth, or he took her, his property, 
into his arms with some sudden sense of that loveli- 
ness of hers, which the slow years had brought to 
something paler, purer, and more striking than of old. 
Nothing made any difference to her, — nothing seemed 
worth while. 

She woke up this afternoon, — because it was her 
wedding-day, perhaps, — and wondered what this long 
and entire absence of emotion had meant. Was she 
dying, or slowly going mad. Better death itself than 
this hopeless apathy. 

She went back upstairs, and opened a wardrobe in 
an unused chamber. Her wedding-dress hung there. 
She looked at the shimmering white robes and frosty 
frills of lace, until they carried her back to her old 
self, and the feelings and emotions of the old time. 
Something in her nature seemed to break up, as the 
streams do when the winter frosts are over. She felt 
tears gathering in her eyes, those eyes which had been 
dry so long, and she wiped them away with a thrill of 
thanksgiving. Then she shut the door, and turned its 
key on the ghostly, gleaming bridal fineries, and went 
downstairs again, and sat in the lonely grandeur of 
her drawing-room, at a window opening upon the 
street. 

How many weary hours she had sat there during 


AFTER FIVE YEARS, 


55 


these slow-paced years which had gone by her. She 
had watched funerals there, and weddings; beggars 
and republican princes. That window had shown her 
strange sights. Startling contrasts were to be seen 
from it, even now ; but she did not stop to marvel 
at them. It seemed natural that there should be 
changes in the world, — only for her there was no 
change, and that was stranger than all. 

She began to ask herself what it meant. For what 
reason was she here, always here, — here where she 
did not want to be, and where no one wanted her, — 
far away from all the landmarks Fate would have 
seemed in early days to have set for her, and yet held 
here by the iron clutch of Fate itself? All sorts of 
chances and changes happened in the world, — deaths 
and births, fortunes made and lost, unexpected dis- 
coveries, hidden things brought to light, — but for her 
nothing save the same dead level, the life she hated, 
with not even a breath of wind across the desert 
sands. 

Then suddenly as if another than herself had asked 
it, the question came to her, — why did she stay here ? 
Why not go on to the next oasis ? Somewhere over a 
cool fountain the palm-trees rustled, the water of life 
waited for her lips. Was she imbecile? Had she no 
courage ? Why had she sat still so long, and let the 
years go by her, never once trying to take destiny into 
her own hands, — growing ■ old, and hopeless, and 
despairing, but never struggling to help herself? Did 
God make her a coward, or only a woman, — or Avere 


66 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


the words synonymes? Did she not deserve all she 
suffered ? Why had she married Elliott Le Roy in the 
first place? But, looking back, she saw that she 
could not justly blame herself for that. Her eyes had 
not been opened to what love might be by any feeling 
deeper than she experienced for him. She remembered 
what a knight, without fear and without reproach, he 
had seemed to her when she first met him, — a Saul 
among his fellows. She had neither understood her 
own heart then, nor had any standard by which to 
measure him. 

Is it not true that women are marrying as unwisely 
every day ? Some find out their mistake, and are still 
indifiTerent ; because to them life is in the abundance 
of the things a man possesses. Will such women’s 
heaven, I wonder, ever be more than meat, and drink, 
and raiment ? 

Others, in these mismated ranks, never understand 
themselves. They find life a tread-mill round ; but they 
do not guess that it holds any deeper joy or subtler 
woe than themselves have tasted. 

But she did know, — this poor Elizabeth. She had 
found out. She understood herself but dimly, even 
yet ; still she knew that there was something in her 
crying out for ever with a cry that would not be 
silenced, — an inner self, dying slowly, for want of 
room to breathe. She wondered again why she had 
stayed so long. 

She had no child to look at her with its father’s 
pitiless blue eyes, whose possible meanings she knew so 


AFTER FIVE YEARS. 


57 


well, now. If she had had one, she could have borne 
on for that, and drawn strength from the thought that 
she was suffering for another’s sake, not her own. But 
now she suffered for no other. Le Roy did not want 
her; or, if he did, wanted her only because of his 
own pride ; and surely he, who had been in all things 
so utterly self-seeking, deserved nothing at her hands. 
Her own self-respect she would preserve. Her own 
honor should be unstained ; but she was not held in 
the old grooves by any fiction of honor or duty toward 
him. He had put those to flight long ago. Why, 
then, did she sit on there idle, with the great gay 
world of chances and changes outside, and grow old 
and hopeless, losing all the years that should be young 
and glad, doomed to a thirst which no fountain was 
given her to quench? 

She might have asked herself as well, if she had 
been wiser, what she could possibly gain by going 
away ? To go away from her keeper would not free 
her from her bondage. She could only drag her chain 
with her. Morally and legally, the fetter would be 
upon her still ; and would the simple gain of not seeing 
one man’s face compensate her for all she must give 
up, — her position of worldly ease and high repute, — 
the luxuries of which long use had made necessities, 
— all the good things of this world which belonged to 
her as Mrs. Le Roy? But she was inconsequent by 
nature, as women almost always are. Roused at last 
from the torpor which had so long held her motionless 
and silent as death, with no throb of feeling beyond 
3 * 


58 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


a vague, sad wonder at herself, she now began to long 
passionately to get away. But where should she find 
any door of escape ? Did God, who sent an angel to 
open Peter’s prison-house, keep in His Heaven any 
messenger of deliverance for her? 

She heard the street-door open to the master of the 
house, and she sat still and waited for him. The emo- 
tions of the afternoon had left their impress on her 
face. Perhaps she had never in her life been so hand- 
some. Her eyes sparkled feverishly. Her cheeks 
glowed. Her lips were vivid crimson. Her husband 
came in, and his observant look rested upon her. He 
bowed to her with an air of gallantry which seemed to 
her so hollow, that her very soul rose in rebellion 
against it. He said, as he bent before her, — “I 
congratulate myself, Mrs. Le Roy, on having your 
face in my drawing-room. It has blossomed anew 
to-day.” 

“ Do you know what day it is ? ” she asked, coldly. 

“ Let me see, — fifth, sixth, seventh of November, is 
it not ? ” 

“ It is the fifth anniversary of our marriage.” 

And in honor of that your roses have bloomed ? 
I congratulate myself that you have retained through 
five years of matrimony so much sentiment for me.” 

“ Sentiment for you ! ” 

She got up and stood before him, a slight shape, 
with her soft lengths of black silk falling around her ; 
her gleaming eyes, her cheeks, where burned the roses 
he had praised. Her voice was low, but awfuby dis- 


AFTER FIVE YEARS. 


59 


tinct. Her words dropped into the silence like stones 
into a well. 

“1 will tell you just how much sentiment I have for 
you. Elliott Le Roy. I hate you. You took me, a 
warm-hearted, honest girl, ready to love you. But 
you did not want my love. You have chilled me, till 
now my heart is ice, too. I only want one thing in 
this world, and that is to get away from you.” 

“ Take care, Elizabeth.” 

She looked straight into his eyes, and saw a red 
gleam kindle them. His face was livid. His lips were 
set. But she only laughed a bitter laugh. 

“No, I will not take care. I have taken care long 
enough ; and lived in mortal fear of your cold, sneering 
words, and your pitiless eyes. I don’t want to stay 
with you. Why should I stay ? ” 

Le Roy smiled, — a smile which was not good to 
see. 

“ I will tell you why, but take a seat first, if you 
please. We are not upon the stage, and we can talk 
more at our ease in a less dramatic position.” 

She obeyed the inclination of his hand, and sat down. 
He went on, quietly, — “I will tell you why you should 
stay ; because it is my pleasure. I do not choose to 
have my domestic matters in the mouth of every man 
about town. It is my will that you remain here, and I 
think you will not be mad enough to go away. If you 
left me without other justification than you could bring, 
do you think there is any capacity in which scrupulous 
people would receive you into their houses? There 


60 


SOME WOMENS S HEARTS. 


would be no one thing which you could do to support 
yourself. You could take your choice between starv- 
ing and going back to Lenox. Perhaps your uncle 
would welcome you cheerfully, if he found you had 
forsaken your own home. Of that you can judge ; you 
know him, probably, better than I do. I should 
scarcely fancy, however, that to go back among your 
old friends, under such altered circumstances, would 
quite suit you. About that you can consider, however. 
In the mean time, if you please, we will go to dinner. 
It has been waiting ten minutes already, and you had 
best understand fully that our affairs shall not be talked 
about in our kitchen.” 

He offered her his arm, and she took it, girding 
fiercely at herself. Why had she not courage to refuse 
to keep up this sham? Why was she still meekly 
obeying the man she hated? 

Le Hoy talked in his lightest and most sparkling vein 
while dinner was served. Jones — oh, the sagacity of 
our domestic critics — remarked downstairs, between 
the courses, that he guessed something had gone wrong 
with the master to-day, he was so extra smiling and 
smooth. 

Elizabeth constrained herself to make answers when 
they were necessary ; but she went on, meanwhile, with 
her, own thoughts. Clearly, her husband would never 
help her to break from her bonds, and what could she 
do of herself? She had said once, that when she was 
old or tired of life she should want to go to Lenox and 
die there. But she was not ready to go there now, and 


AN OPENING DOOB, 


61 


face those familiar eyes. She felt herself strong and 
full of life, in spite of her despair ; and she thought 
death might be too long in coming. 

After all, was she not utterly helpless ? She would 
have shown herself wiser to have gone on in silence, in 
the old, passive way. Now, of course, Le Roy would 
never forget or forgive what she had told him. Still, 
what matter ? What could he do to make her life any 
more hopeless or barren than it had been so long ? That 
night, when she had said her prayers, — the old, simple, 
familiar prayers of her childhood, — she added to them 
another, — “O God, thou who didst send the angel 
to Peter, open for me a door, — I pray thee, for thy 
mercy’s sake, open for me also a door ! ” 

She forgot, entirely, to say, Thy will, not mine, be 
done.” She was like some passionate child crying for 
the moon. If the moon should fall at his entreaty, the 
child’s destruction would be sure and swift ; but still 
the Father holds the heavens in their places, and rules 
the lives of men. 


CHAPTER VI. 

AN OPENING DOOR. 

Three weeks went by without a single allusion hav- 
ing been made to the passionate words Elizabeth had 
spoken. Whethei her husband believed them, under- 


62 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS, 


stood them in their full significance, or regarded them as 
a momentary outbreak, born of “just the least little 
touch of spleen,” she could not guess. He had ever since 
treated her with his customary smooth politeness. It 
had been seldom always that he gave her any thing 
positive to complain of, but she had thought sometimes 
that Torquemada himself never invented tortures keener 
or subtler than hers. 

Le Roy had once questioned within himself whether 
the instinct of serfdom belonged to Elizabeth. If this 
instinct provides that the serf shall love his chains, 
assuredly she had none of it ; for though she wore hers 
in silence, every day they galled her more and more, and 
her spirit grew more and more bitter and impatient. 

“Was there really a God in Heaven?” she asked 
herself sometimes, “ who cared for His creatures ? Had 
He not rather framed some pitiless laws under which 
He had set His universe in motion, and then, sitting 
serene and far-off in His Heaven, undisturbed by any 
groans or sighs, left them to crush every offender against 
them to powder ? ” If she had only had a little faith ; 
but for her, in those days, neither the sun shone by 
day, or the stars by night. Her heavens were as dark 
as her earth. 

One forenoon Le Roy came in, and found her sitting 
idle and listless, as usual. 

“ I am off to-day,” he said, “ with a party of gentle- 
men for Havana.” 

“ And I ? ” she asked, lifting her eyes to his face. 

“You will of course remain in your own house. You 


OPENING DOOR. 


63 


will find tliat every necessary arrangement lias been 
made for your comfort. You need not be troubled 
with any cares concerning money. Mrs. Murray is 
competent for all indoor details. Jones will supply any 
outside wants. You will find your credit excellent at 
all the places where you are accustomed to trade ; and 
you need have no anxiety about any thing.” 

Elizabeth understood him fully. She saw that she 
was not to be trusted with money, lest she might use it 
to baffle her keeper’s will. She spoke the thought 
which came uppermost. 

“You might as well send me to a private mad-house 
at once.” 

He smiled, his cool, cynical smile. 

“ Oh, no, I do not think that will be necessary. Such 
things have been done, when women have shown them- 
selves incapable of understanding their own interests. 
In such a case a husband, of course, would not hesi- 
tate; but you, I think, will be wiser. You have spec- 
ulated a good deal about social questions. You used, 
I remember, to have quite fine-spun theories of life.” 

Poor theories, she thought, — where had they brought 
her? 

She sat silent, and watched her husband as he moved 
round the room, selecting a few things he wished to 
take, and restoring others to their places. She began 
to feel a sort of curiosity about their parting, thinking 
of herself in a vague, questioning way, as if she were 
a third person. Would that man kiss this waiting, 
watchful woman when he bade her good-by, she won- 


64 


SOME WOMEN '^S HEARTS. 


tiered. It was not that she wanted the kiss, or even 
shrank from it. She felt a wholly impersonal curiosity, 
such as I suppose every one of us may have felt about 
ourselves, in moments when emotion has grown torpid 
and observation is wide-awake. It was not his habit 
to make affectionate farewells ; but then he had never 
gone on a sea voyage before ; and she believed there 
was some tradition about connubial kisses before long 
partings. But, no ; when he was quite ready he only 
said, with that irritating, condescending politeness, 
which always nearly maddened her, — “ Good-by, Mrs. 
Le Roy. You must manage to amuse yourself. I hope 
you will not be dull during my absence.” 

And then he was gone. 

Elizabeth sat still where he left her. Her face was 
like marble, but her soul was in arms. He could wan- 
der where he liked, — he need not even go through the 
idle ceremony of consulting her. His own pleasure was 
his only law. For her there was no freedom of choice, 
no change of place such as she would welcome, even 
though it were only change of pain. She, this rich 
man’s wife, had not a paltry hundred dollars at her 
command. Here she was, shut in by these brick walls, 
held fast by Fate ; and outside, still outside, was the 
world, as much beyond her reach, with its great and 
strange delights of chance and change, its bewildering 
excitements for heart and brain, as it had been when 
she lived among the lonely, lovely Lenox hills. 

Just here I want to protest against being supposed 
to endorse the course of my poor Elizabeth. I tell you 


AN OPENING DOOR. 


65 


the story of a living, breathing, suffering woman ; but 
because I show her to you as she was, you have no 
right to conclude that I show her to you as I think she 
ought to have been. Unquestionably she would have 
been nobler had she striven to conquer her fate, instead 
of sitting and longing vainly for means to flee from it. 
Many, many faults she had. She was rash, undisci- 
plined, wanting in faith as in patience; and yet, just 
such as she was, I loved her very deeply, and vould 
rather pity than blame. 

For a week after her husband went away, she sat 
alone, and brooded in a kind of passionate despair over 
the circumstances which environed her, at feud alike 
with Fate and with Providence. Then there came to 
her a letter with the Lenox post-mark. This was a 
rare event, for during her married life she had seldom 
heard from Lenox. She had not cared so much for any 
of the Fordyces, that it had cost her any special pain 
to let them drift out of her life. If she had been very 
happy, she might possibly, after the manner of women, 
have liked to summon them as witnesses of her felicity. 
As it was, she had acquiesced willingly enough in her 
husband’s opinion, that “it would just be a bore to 
have them there; country relations always wanted 
showing round, and it was the most tedious thing in 
life ; ” and therefore none of her cousins had ever vis- 
ited her. She had always sent them gifts at Christmas 
time ; and upon the announcement of Kate’s marriage 
to a well-to-do young Berkshireman, a handsome silver 
set had gone to her, in the names of Mr. and Mrs. Le 


66 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS, 


Koy. But this letter from Lenox was not in the chi- 
rography of either of the “ three Graces.” 

Elizabeth broke the seal, and first of all there flut- 
tered into her lap a piece of newspaper. She took it 
up, and read the announcement of her uncle's death ; 
and after it a long obituary, setting forth his excellen- 
cies as husband, father, man of business, member of 
society at large. 

“ Poor old uncle,” Elizabeth said, with a sad smile, 
“ he has departed this life with all the honors.” 

Then she took up her letter again. It was in two 
sheets. The first, which enclosed the other, was from 
a lawyer, whose name she recognized, but who was not 
her uncle’s customary legal adviser. She remembered 
him as a man whose integrity stood in very high repute 
in Lenox. 

His letter informed her that three weeks ago the late 
Mr. Fordyce had called upon him, and entrusted to his 
care eight thousand dollars, with the understanding that 
as soon as convenient, after his decease, it should be for- 
warded to herself in the form of a draft on some good 
New York bank. At that time Mr. Fordyce had shown 
no signs of illness, but, notwithstanding his apparently 
good health, had seemed to be impressed with a con- 
viction that he had not long to live; and, for some 
domestic reasons, into the nature of which he did not 
enter, had wished to have this money conveyed to Mrs. 
Le Roy in such a manner that it need not come to the 
knowledge of even his own family. Doubtless the en^ 
closed letter from her uncle, of the contents of which he 


AN OPENING DOOR, 


67 


himself was entirely ignorant, would make the whole 
matter clear to her. In a day or two after this inter- 
view, Mr. Fordyce had been seized with the sudden 
illness which terminated his life ; and as soon as practi- 
cable afterwards, arrangements had been made for car- 
rying out his instructions with regard to the money. 
Mrs. Le Roy would find the draft enclosed. The late 
Mr. Fordyce had provided for all the details ; and Mr. 
Mills had only to request of Mrs. Le Roy an acknowl- 
edgment of the safe receipt of his letter and its en- 
closures. 

With curious emotion Elizabeth took up the draft 
and looked at it, — a draft in due form for eight thou- 
sand dollars, payable to her order. Was there, after all, 
a God in Heaven, whose ears were not deaf to the cry 
of a weak woman’s woe, — who heard prayers and an- 
swered them ? Her uncle must have gone to Lawyer 
Mills about this matter just after those wild entreaties 
of hers, that the God of Peter would open to her also 
a door. And now her door was opening ; for she never 
doubted for one single instant what use she should 
make of this money. 

She broke open the dead man’s letter next in order, 
and this was what it said : — 

“ My FTiece Elizabeth, — I believe myself to be 
about to die. I cannot tell why this belief has taken 
hold of me, but I am sure that I am not Ions: for this 
world. And, before I go out of it, I have an act of 
restitution to perform. Wh^n your father, my dead 


68 


SOME WOMEN^'S EEABTS, 


and gone brother James, died, if you had received 
your due, you would have had six thousand dollars. 
But the business was embarrassed at the time, and I 
thought that to put so much money out of my hands 
just then would ruin me. I took the responsibility, 
therefore, of deciding not to do it. I managed, by 
means that were not strictly legitimate, to keep the 
whole in my own possession. I did not mean ill by 
you, either. Your memory will bear me witness that I 
dealt by you in every way as by my own children ; nor 
do I think the interest of your six thousand dollars, in 
whatever way invested, could possibly have taken care 
of you so well as I did. Still, to have it to use in my 
business at that critical time, was worth much more 
than the cost of your maintenance to me. So, as I look 
at matters, you owe me no thanks for your upbringing, 
and I owe you no farther compensation for the use of 
your money during those years which you passed in 
my house. For the five years since then, I owe you 
interest ; and I have added to your six thousand dollars 
two thousand more, to reimburse you for your loss dur- 
ing that time. 

“ If my life should be prolonged for many weeks, I 
shall make arrangements for quietly putting you in pos- 
session of this sum ; but I do not think it will be pro- 
longed. I am acting upon a profound conviction that 
my days in this world are almost numbered. I had 
rather that this matter should not come to your knowl- 
edge till after I am gone. As I have not defrauded 
you of a single dollar, but on the other hand have, as I 


AN OPENING DOOR, 


69 


conscientiously believe, done more for you witli your 
money than you could have obtained for it in any other 
way, I think I have a right to request you to keep the 
whole thing a secret. The most careful investigation of 
my affairs will not reveal the fact of any subtraction from 
my property. This fund is one which, ever since your 
marriage, I have been saving, gradually and secretly, 
for this very purpose. There is no need to toss my 
name to the geese of Berkshire ; or even to make 
known to my wife and children that I had done some- 
thing which, it may be, their notions of right would lead 
them to condemn. I acted according to my own lights ; 
and I repeat, Elizabeth, I have not wronged you by so 
much as a dollar. If your husband must know this 
matter, at least let it go no farther. When you read 
these lines, I shall be standing, it may be, at your fath- 
er’s side ; and for the reason that I was his brother, if 
for no other, I believe that you will deal gently with 
my memory. Your Uncle 

“ Isaac.” 

Elizabeth’s seldom falling tears wet the last words of 
this letter. 

“ Poor old Uncle Isaac,” she said aloud ; “ you builded 
better than you knew. You have opened my door, and 
it is little to ask that not a soul on earth shall ever 
know your secret.” 


70 


tiOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


CHAPTER VIL 

OUT OF THE CAGE. 

Elizabeth had no conflict of ideas at this time. 
For her this eight thousand dollars had but one use, — ■ 
flight from her fate ; one meaning, — freedom. She 
felt as if Heaven itself had dropped this unexpected 
bounty into her lap. This was what she had been 
praying for. At last, in this great world of chances 
and changes, something had happened even to her. 
Now she could break her chains, elude hei^ keeper. 

The eleventh day of December, she stood on the 
deck of a steamer, outward bound for Havre. All her 
arrangements had been completed with a tact and 
secrecy and worldly wisdom which surprised herself. 
Not even Mrs. Murray’s vigilance or Jones’s curiosity 
had suspected her. Her outfit, the deep mourning of 
a widow, had been made at a University Place dress- 
maker’s, whom she had never patronized before. She 
took ofl* her diamond ring, and laid it in her jewel- 
casket. She locked drawers and wardrobes, and put 
the keys in an envelope, which she sealed and directed 
to her husband, leaving it in his desk. She left with 
it no word of farewell. She was utterly indifl*erent as 
to what he thought. She believed that he had no 
heart to be wounded. She credited him with no un- 
selfish anxiety for her safety. As for his pride, he 


OVT OF THE GAGE. 


71 


must nurse and solace that as he could. She felt free 
of him when once that great, glittering diamond eye 
was off her finger. She would take nothing of his, 
nothing except the plain gold wedding-ring, which 
was to corroborate her widow’s weeds. Even the 
simple walking-dress which she wore to University 
Place, when she went to put on her mourning, was 
purchased with her own money. She left the house on 
foot, as if to take an ordinary walk ; and that night 
dinner waited for her in vain at Madison Square, and 
she ate hers between blue water and blue sky. 

Her name was registered in the list of passengers as 
Mrs. E. Nugent. As Nugent was both the name of her 
mother and her own middle name, she felt that she had 
a certain right to this designation, and was not exactly 
sailing under false colors. 

The passage occupied thirteen days, and during that 
time she had ample leisure to arrange her plans for 
the future. The interest of her small fortune would 
be but a meagre support, she knew, even in Paris, 
where she had heard that the expenses of living were 
much less than in New York. Still, if a pittance, it 
was at least something fixed and certain, and she could 
live on it, if compelled by necessity. In the eager joy 
with which in those days she contemplated her free- 
dom, she thought no life apart from her husband, 
whatever its privations, could be so comfortless or 
BO barren that she would not infinitely prefer it to the 
fate she had left behind her. • Still she believed herself 
to have resources. She had some knowledge of French, 


72 


SOME WOMEN'>S HEARTS, 


— the imperfect knowledge a studious girl can acquire 
from such teachers as a country place affords. Her 
accent was bad, she knew ; her grammar at fault ; her 
ignorance conspicuous in every sentence she tried to 
frame. But these things would mend daily. Meantime, 
her French could not be much worse than the English 
of most of the language-masters whom she had been in 
the habit of seeing ; and she thought her inaccuracies 
and inelegancies need not prevent her from seeking 
and probably finding employment as an English teacher 
in Paris. She had begun to acquire confidence in her 
own executive ability, which had stood her in such 
good stead in the last few days. 

She withdrew herself during the voyage, almost 
entirely, from the rest of the passengers, as her deep 
mourning gave her an excellent excuse for doing ; but 
more than one had noticed with an interest kinder 
than mere curiosity the young, delicate-looking woman, 
with her sad, sweet face, who knew no one, and whom 
no one knew. 

‘‘We shall see Havre to-morrow,” the captain said, 
going up to her, as she sat on deck looking over the 
railing into the lapsing waters, alone as usual. 

Captain Ellis was a man in his fifties, — such a man 
as the sea makes of material good in the first place, — 
cool-brained, quick-witted, clear-headed, large of heart, 
strong of muscle; above all, with no shams about 
him ; entirely true, and entirely in earnest. 

From the commencement of the voyage, Elizabeth’s 
face had interested him, and her loneliness appealed to 


OUT OF THE CAGE. 


73 


his sympathy. She might have been a daughter of 
his own, as far as years went ; and this man, who was 
only the father of sons, felt for her a curious tenderness, 
though they had scarcely exchanged a dozen sentences. 
He could not bear to let her slip away from him like 
the waves in the wake of his vessel, and leave no 
mark. At least he must know whether she was going 
to a safe harbor. 

I have spoken before of the singular charm of Eliza- 
beth’s voice. Captain Ellis felt it in the few words 
which answered him. Nothing in her manner, how- 
ever, invited him to prolong the conversation; still, 
secure of his own good intentions, he determined to 
seem curious and officious in her eyes, rather than 
miss any possible chance of serving her. He stood 
beside her silently for a few moments, then he asked, 
apropos of nothing, as it appeared, — “Did you ever 
fancy that gray hairs might be an advantage, Mrs. 
Nugent ? ” 

She gave, at the sound of the name by which she 
had been so seldom called, a slight start which did not 
escape his notice ; but her voice was very quiet, as she 
said, — “I suppose every one longs for them, or for 
what they signify, who is tired of life. Any sign that 
one is nearing the end must be welcome.” 

“But I am not tired of life, Mrs. Nugent, or in any 
present hurry to get to any better place than Havre. 
I have found life a good thing. My days have been 
good days, and I am in no haste to end them. I like 
the salt, free wind, the wide sea, the watching sky ; 

4 


74 


SOME WOMEN’^S EEABTS. 


and I will hold on to life while I may, always ready, 
please God, to die bravely when I must. Still I find 
an advantage in gray hairs, notwithstanding. But for 
them, and the fact that I am quite old enough to 
be your father, I should not venture to ask you, as 
I am going to, whether I can be of any assistance to 
you after you leave the ship. I suppose you will go on 
to Paris ; and if you have no friends to meet you at 
Havre, perhaps there will be some way in which I can 
serve you.” 

Elizabeth looked up to him, a sudden rush of tears 
swimming in her dark eyes, her old, eager impulsive- 
ness glowing on her changeful face. 

“No one will meet me anywhere. I am all alone in 
the world, — running away from my destiny; but it 
seems to me God must have brought me so far, and 
perhaps He will help me on.” 

For a few moments Captain Ellis did not speak. 
Then he said very gravely and very tenderly, — “ Tell 
me as much or as little as you Uke. But let me help 
you if I can. I have a wife at home, who is as good a 
woman as ever God made ; and I had one daughter, 
who died before she had spoken a word except my 
name. If she had lived, she might have been about 
your age, now. I think I would not have let her take 
her life in her hand, as you have done ; but I would 
have blessed any man who showed her kindness. For 
her sake, and her mother’s sake, I would like to be 
kind to you.” 

“ My father and my mother are in Heaven,” Elizabeth 


OUT OF THE CAGE, 


75 


said, in a low voice, “ and I had no one who cared for 
very much. I cannot tell you my story ; but I have 
done nothing which would have been unworthy of 
your daughter had she grown up to womanhood. 

If you will believe me, and help me, without knowing 
any more, I will indeed be thankful, for I am frier dless. 
No soul in France has ever heard of me ; but I think 
I shall do very well there, if I can manage the first 
steps. I have money enough to keep myself from 
absolute want, and my plan is to add to my income by 
teaching English.” 

Captain Ellis considered for a few moments before he 
said, — “I was trying to think whether I could get 
away from the ship for twenty -four hours, and I do not 
see how it can be done. But I will put you in the cars 
for Paris, and give you a letter to the American consul 
there. He happens to be an old friend of mine ; but, 
even if he were not, you, as his countrywoman, would 
have a claim upon his care. I shall have to trust the 
business of getting you properly located to him.” 

Elizabeth had had the consulate in her mind before » 
as the ark of refuge for an American citizen ; but the 
captain’s letter would make matters much easier for 
her, and she thanked him warmly. She had scarcely 
realized how lonely she was until she was taught it by 
the contrasting comfort she felt in the friendly interest 
of this stranger. 

As she sat in the cars, in the early morning of the 
next day but one, whirling on toward Paris, she began, 
for the first time since she started on her long journey, 


SOME WOMEN'^S IIEAllTS. 


76 


to tremble in view of the untried life, the new, strange 
land. She had Captain Ellis’s letter in her pocket, and 
he had given minute directions for her guidance ; and 
yet it came over her, with a sense of awful desolation, 
that she was going into the midst of the world’s Babel, 
the great, tumultuous city of which she had heard so 
much, all alone. In that seething, surging sea of 
hurna?! life, who was there to care if her little bark 
went down? 

She pressed her face close against the car- window, 
and looked out over the strange, unknown land, up to the 
constant, always known sky, — God’s Heaven, arching 
over all. She had cried out to Him before, in the bit- 
terness of her despair, half doubtful whether He would 
hear or heed her ; but she had never learned to draw 
'nigh to Him as to a loving Father. It was strange that 
just at this hour, with the unaccustomed scenes of this 
new country before her, the murmurs of the almost un- 
known tongue buzzing in her ears, the faces whose 
aspect was so unfamiliar about her, she first began to 
have a near and sweet sense of the Friend who might 
be closer than all, — so that out of the very unrest of 
time and place, her soul drew nigh to the rest which is 
everlasting. It is not for any seer or psychologist of us 
all to explain the mental or spiritual experiences of 
another soul. Such analysis is beyond our weak vision ; 
but the truth remains, by whatever means wrought, 
that for the first time in Elizabeth’s life she felt herself 
ready to say, not as an idle form of words, but out of 
the depths of her heart, — “ Thy will be done.” 


OUT OF THE CAGE. 


77 


What that will was she did not know ; or guess how 
widely she might have strayed from the path it had 
marked out for her. She was yet to learn her lesson 
of life through bitter sorrows ; but she felt now that, 
however long or lonely the way she trod, she should 
never again experience the awful solitariness of a soul 
without God in the world. 

She grew interested at last in the scenes through 
which she was passing, — the low, yet pleasant fields, 
where old women with blue umbrellas watched their 
cows, or shepherds with their dogs guarded the fiocks ; 
the odd little stone huts, scarcely six feet high, where 
the N^orman peasants burrowed, with houses of substan 
tial elegance interspersed now and then ; forests, with 
their trees set out in rows ; quaint costumes ; pictu- 
resque churches ; pretty railway stations, — every thing 
had for her the charm of novelty, the glamour which 
invests the unknown. 

As she neared Paris, her heart began to beat sufib- 
catingly ; but she found the provident care of Captain 
Ellis had extended farther than she knew. A civil 
man, wearing the badge of a guard, came forward, and 
saved her all trouble with her luggage ; and almost be- 
fore she knew it she was in 2i fiacre^ driving toward the 
consulate, in the Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin. 

The consul received her with a courtesy, which be- 
came friendliness as soon as he had read Captain Ellis’s 
letter. 

“ I think I know the very thing that will suit you,” 
he said, “ if it is not already taken up. A friend of 


78 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


mine, an American artist, left, three days ago, some 
quiet rooms, in a quiet old house on the Rue Jacob. 
He boarded with a French family, a man and his wife, 
who occupy the third floor^ and who let him, at a very 
reasonable rate, a bedroom and a little sitting-room. 
If you could get it, it would be just the place to cast 
anchor in at first, — when you know Paris better, you 
can make a change if you choose ? ” 

“ I shall be thankful enough to cast anchor in any 
safe harbor, and stay there,” Elizabeth said, gratefully. 

“ Then I will send a clerk with you at once. If un- 
fortunately the rooms are engaged, and you will drive 
back here, we will see what else can be done. In addi- 
tion to my interest in serving one of my countrywomen, 
any friend of Captain Ellis has a peculiar claim upon 
me.” 

Fortunately the rooms au troisieme in the house in the 
Rue Jacob were not engaged, — most fortunately, Eliz- 
abeth said to herself, for she fell in love with the quaint 
old house at once ; and her delight was intensified when 
she looked out of the windows of the little third-story 
back sitting-room, which was to be her own. In the 
rear of the house was a delicious old garden, shutting 
in a quarter of an acre of ground, in the very heart of 
the city. Over the high walls ivy ran luxuriantly, — a 
summer-house was in the centre, and flower-beds and 
shrubbery promised pleasantly for the spring. 

She left the clerk, a voluble Frenchman, to make her 
bargain for her, and the matter was settled in flve min- 
utes. Her luggage was brought upstairs, and Madame 


THE DOCTOR DOWNSTAIRS. 


79 


Nugent was at home in her two little rooms, with their 
brilliant cleanliness, their smoothly waxed floors, and 
ineflicient little fires far within the deep jambs, sending 
frightened jets of flame up the chimneys. Her delight 
in it all was as fresh as a child’s. She liked the odd 
furniture, — the bits of rug in front of bed, and easy- 
chair, and sofa, the inevitable clock and pair of candle- 
sticks on the chimney-piece, the heavy chintz curtaifls 
about her little bed. 

It was her first unalloyed taste of pleasant novelty, 
poor girl, and she had left no one whom she loved be- 
hind, — no one to mourn after, no one to be sorry for 
her. Her eyes grew bright as she looked around her, 
and a fresh glow came to her cheeks. At last she was 
out in the world for which she had longed. And she 
guessed so little what lay before her, — as little as we 
all divine of our to-morrows, God help us. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE DOCTOR DOWNSTAIRS. 

“ And madame has no friends in Paris ? ” 

“Not one, good Madame Ponsard, unless you will let 
me call you by that name.” 

The flexible, tender, pathetic voice found its way to 
Madame Ponsard’s heart, and a tear in her eye answered 


80 


SOME WOMEN ^S HEARTS. 


it before her words, — “I think madame may take that 
for granted.” 

‘‘ I think I may, for you have been very kind to me.” 

Elizabeth had just come home from giving an English 
lesson. She had five pupils already, though she had 
been in Paris scarcely a month. Madame Ponsard had 
procured them for her; and though they were hour^ 
geois, they paid very well, and she considered herself 
in quite comfortable circumstances. 

She felt a sense of freedom, of expansion, which ex- 
hilarated her like wine. She changed her habits with 
her mood. She was no longer studious. The books 
which had been at once the solace and the occupation 
of her past life, were left with that past behind her. 
She spent her leisure hours in wandering round the old 
Faubourg St. Germain, in the midst of which was the 
Hue Jacob ; and taking in all the strange sights and 
sounds which everywhere met eye and ear. 

Sometimes she went to Notre Dame, and idled an 
hour away pleasantly looking at the wonderful stone 
carvings on the exterior of the church, wondering 
whether the carver, fashioning here a saint, and hard 
by a devil leading some doomed band to endless woe, 
here a bird and there an evil beast, had builded with 
some pious purpose of making every thing that hath 
breath praise the Lord ; or whether he had laughed a 
wicked laugh as he cut the incongruous shapes. 

She developed, too, quite a love for harmless gossip. 
She liked to hear Madame Pqnsard’s voluble chatter 
about Monsieur Grey, the artist, who used to occupy 


THE DOCTOR DOWNSTAIRS, 


81 


her rooms; the charming widow on the first floor; the 
American doctor, whose apartment was just underneath 
them, and who used to come upstairs so often to see 
the artist, his compatriot, — such a clever man, ma- 
dame said. Why, he had given her a tisane once for 
herself, and her throat had never been sore since. 

^ It is possible that Elizabeth wanted to hear some of 
these oflen-told stories over again on this particular after- 
noon, late in January, when she took her work and went 
into madame’s little sitting-room. But somehow the 
talk drifted first to her own afiairs. There was a space 
of silence after Madame Ponsard had asked whether 
Elizabeth had any friends in Paris, — a space of silence 
which the French woman broke rather hesitatingly. 

“ And, — I beg pardon, but madame’s face is so 
young, and her mourning so fresh, — I suppose Mon- 
sieur Nugent cannot have been long dead?” 

“I lost my husband the week before I started for 
Paris,” Elizabeth replied, in a tone which made her vol- 
uble companion feel that no more questions were to be 
asked. She bent over her sewing again, while Eliza- 
beth looked idly down the street ; for madame’s sitting- 
room was on the front. At last she said, with a little 
color in her cheeks, — “I met a new face this afternoon 
as I came up the stairs.” 

“ What sort of face ? ” madame inquired, with eager 
interest. 

“A very good face, I should think. A man with 
kind-looking gray eyes, brown hair, and strong, resolute 
features, — not handsome, and not young.” 

4 * 


F 


82 


BOMB WOMEN'^B EEABTB, 


Madame laughed, and patted softly together her 
pudgy little hands. “ Good ! good ! That is the doc- 
tor downstairs. I know him from what you say. But 
he is not old, — not forty yet. Madame Nugent is so 
young, that what seems youth to me is like old age to 
her. Oh, but Dr. Erskine is not ill-looking, either.” 

“ No,” Elizabeth ans wered, musingly. “ I said he 
was not handsome ; but I think he is better than that. 
It is a face one can trust. How happens it I have 
never seen him before?” 

“ Some of the time he was away. For the rest, his 
hours for going out and coming in have been different 
from yours. But I am glad you like his looks. He is 
your countryman, and if you should be ill, that would 
be one grand comfort.” 

For what is he here ? ” 

“ To study in the hospitals. Monsieur Grey said he 
was a great doctor in his own country ; but he wanted 
to see some practice here ; you know our surgeons are 
the most skilful in the world. It was last fall he came, 
and he said he might stay a year.” 

Elizabeth was ready to laugh at herself for the absurd 
interest and curiosity she experienced about this stran- 
ger, whom she had just met on the stairs; but then, in 
apology for her weakness, she thought how few human 
interests she had. And, after all, the face was that of 
a countrynian. She began to think that there might be 
more in that tie than she had quite realized. 

After this day she met Dr. Erskine frequently. Of 
course it is not to be supposed that he changed his 


THE DOCTOR DOWNSTAIRS. 


88 

hours of going and coming. A grave doctor of almost 
forty could not be suspected of watching from his win- 
dow for the passing along the street of a slight, swift 
shape in black, and then of snatching hat and gloves, 
just for the sake of meeting on the stairs a white, 
young face, framed in by a widow’s cap, and making to 
this, his neighbor, a silent bow. But somehow these 
interviews happened so often that this doctor, with 
whom she had never exchanged a word, but yet who 
was her countryman, grew to seem more closely her 
friend than any one else she had met in Paris. Some 
sure instinct told her that he was a man to be trusted 
all in all. How happy his wife must be, if he had one, 
— or his mother and sisters, — ^ for she could not quite 
fancy him a man to have left a wife behind him. 

Before February was over, an intuition told her that 
the American doctor, with his good, reliable face, might 
be destined to be more of a blessing to her than she 
had as yet fancied. 

She had been married so long, with never a child to 
lay its bright head on her bosom, that she had ceased 
to think of this among the possibilities. And now, 
gradually, but surely, the knowledge came to her that 
before midsummer her baby, hers, would be numbered 
among the world’s little children. At first she trem- 
bled with emotion, — half bliss, half a fear too exquisite 
for pain. Then another thought smote her like a blow. 
She had said in her passionate pride, that she would 
bring away nothing belonging to Elliott Le Roy. And 
now this child who was to come would be as much his 


84 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


as hers. Had she, then, sinned in coming away ? Had 
she taken from him something which might have 
changed his life, wrought out his salvation, — some- 
thing, at any rate, which it was his right to have ? 
Must she go back? AVas it her duty? 

Then, with the ready sophistry which comes so 
easily to us all in the cause of our dearest wishes, she 
persuaded herself that he would have given the child 
no welcome, — that, if he knew all, he would very 
likely ^be thankful to her for taking it out of his way, 
— that, at any rate, it was hers, as it never could 
be his, and she was ready to pay the price for its 
possession. Now, indeed, she would have something to 
love, — something to be her very own, and fill heart 
and arms both full. Surely God knew just how much 
loneliness and solitude of soul she could bear, and had 
tempered His winds to her uses. 

No more wanderings now round the old Faubourg, 
or in the galleries looking at carven stone or painted 
virgins. She had told her secret to Madame Ponsard ; 
and the two women had bought, with real feminine 
delight, a store of lace and cambric and fine linen. 
Elizabeth kept on with her English lessons ; for she 
was more ambitious than ever to make mofiey, and 
add to her provision for the future. But all the time 
she was at home she was sewing away at the dainty 
little garments mothers have fashioned between tears 
and smiles since ever the world began. 

She thought she was at last happy; but it would 
have seemed to a looker on the saddest thing in life to 


THE DOCTOR DOWNBTAIRS. 


85 


see her bending over her task in those deep mourning 
robes of hers ; so young, so solitary, and yet so full of 
womanly hope and courage. 

One April day, Madame Ponsard paid a secret visit 
to Dr. Erskine, and told him privately all which she 
herself knew of her boarder’s history. 

“ Of course,” she said, “ you will be the one to attend 
her when her trial comes ; and I thought it might be 
better if you should see her now and then beforehand, 
and get to seem not quite a stranger to her. Zwill 
open the way by being sick to-night or to-morrow, — 
and, indeed, I am troubled by a fearful indigestion.” 

Madame drew out a long sigh, and Dr. Erskine 
smiled as he looked at her black, bead-like eyes, and 
her fat, rosy, unromantically healthy face. 

“ I will come the moment you send for me,” he said. 
‘‘So, Madame Nugent started for Paris the week after 
she lost her husband ? ” 

“ Yes. She told me that much, one day. It was in 
answer to some question of mine ; and theie was 
something in her manner that made me think it would 
be just as well not to ask her any thing more, — though, 
indeed, as monsieur knows, I am the least curious of 
women.” 

Dr. Erskine looked smilingly after the good-natured 
little gossip as she trotted away. Then he turned 
back into his room and shut the door. 

“ At last ! ” he said to himself ; and then he laughed, 
as a third person might, at grave, thirty-eight-years-old 
Dr. John Erskine being as eager as a boy about a new 
acquaintance. 


86 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEAETS. 


“No wonder. The truth is, I have so few things here 
to think ofi” he said, apologizing to himself as Elizabeth 
had done before. Then he sat down at his window 
and looked out. It was about time for his neighbor to 
return from giving her English lessons. 

That evening the bonne from the floor above knocked 
at his door. Madame Ponsard was very ill, — had sent 
for him, — would he come quickly ? 

He put a little case of bottles in his pocket, and, 
assuming an expression of grave interest, hurried up- 
stairs. Madame Ponsard was lying on a horse-hair 
sofa, and Madame Nugent was bending over her anx- 
iously, with fan and sal volatile. A humorous twinkle 
in Madame Ponsard’s eye, as she began the woful tale 
of her sufierings, nearly upset Dr. Erskine’s compos- 
ure ; but he maintained his gi'avity with a struggle, 
and at once mixed and administered a portion of medi- 
cine, — not very hard to take, as madame’s satisfied 
expression sufficiently indicated, — and then sat down 
to await its effects. 

They were almost immediate. In fifteen minutes 
madame sat up, declaring that she felt as well as ever, 
and that Dr. Erskine was a man the most remarkable 
she had ever seen. Then she introduced him in due 
form to Madame Nugent; and he lingered a half hour 
longer to express his delight at meeting a country- 
woman, and to pave the way for future visits. 

After that he spent an hour, as often as once a week, 
in Madame Ponsard’s sitting-room, and Elizabeth was 
usually present. She tasted a pleasure in these inter- 


THE DOCTOR DOWNSTAIRS. 


87 


views, which she did not attempt to analyze. For the 
first time in her life she was brought into close 
relations with a man whose intellect satisfied her, at 
the same time that she could entirely respect his moral 
qualities. He had two distinguishing traits, as was 
before very long made clear to her, — a will sovereign 
over himself as over others, and a tenderness which 
took into its shelter every living thing which was more 
helpless or more desolate than he, and which, she 
thought, must hold and cherish whatever was his very 
own with a devotion exceeding the love of woman. 

Perhaps you are reading these lines without half 
comprehending how noble and how dangerous a man 
Dr. John Erskine was. Count over the men whom you 
know, and tell me how many you find who have 
indexible wills, without being grasping, selfish, firm 
for themselves rather than for others, — or how many 
who are delicately sensitive and tender, and yet have 
strength to stand up grandly, and are not blown about 
by every wind. When you have counted this bead- 
roll of saints, you will know better whether I have 
given J ohn Erskine rare praise Tvhen I have said that 
his will was as firm as his heart was tender. I called 
him not only noble, but dangerous ; for he was such a 
man, it seems to me, as a woman like Elizabeth, who 
had been wounded so cruelly by the absence of the 
very qualities which he so largely possessed could 
hardly know intimately with safety to her own peace 
of mind. Just now, however, it appeared that she 
wore proof of mail, her whole heart was so full of 


88 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


yearning tenderness for the little being, her very own, 
whom the summer was to lay in her arms. It is pos- 
sible that, after all, the chief danger may have been for 
Dr. Erskine. 


CHAPTER IX. 

WHILE THE MUSIC PLAYED. 

It was the very last of J une, when, for hours and 
days, death stood waiting in Elizabeth’s little room; 
and Dr. Erskine fought with him, and at length won 
the victory. But for his wonderful skill, and still more 
wonderful care, as Elizabeth knew afterwards, neither 
she nor her child would ever have lived through those 
dark hours. For days both their lives seemed to hang 
on a very frail thread ; but the poor young mother was 
delirious all the time, slipping from one wild dream into 
another; and when at length she woke to conscious- 
ness, the danger was past, and her week-old baby lay 
on the bed beside her. 

She looked at the exquisite child as if that, too, were 
a dream. Then she put out her hand and touched the 
pink, soft flesh, and drew it back again, satisfled. The 
little morsel had rings of dusky, silkea hair like her 
own, and faint, shadowy eyelashes resting on its cheeks. 
How eagerly she watched it, only mothers know. She 
and it were all alone. She scarcely dared to breathe, 
lest she should break the slumber which wrapped it like 


WHILE TEE MUSIC PLATED, 


89 


a spell. She lay there in a kind of ecstasy till it awoke, 
— not with a cry, but with a soft rustle,- a stretching 
out of the little arms here and there, a low murmur, 
then wide opening eyes. Elizabeth looked into those 
eyes eagerly. They were the darkest of gray. 

“ Thank God,” she said, under her breath. “ The child 
is stamped mine, not his. It will not be like him in a 
single feature.” 

It uttered, just then, a little, twittering cry, in which 
she fancied she heard the music of the spheres. The 
faint sound brought in Madame Ponsard. Her eyes 
filled with tears when she saw Elizabeth’s face of quiet 
content, and realized that the crisis was past, and the 
reign of hope had begun. But she only said with true 
French tact, going up to the bedside, — “So madame 
concluded to wake up and look at her little daughter ? 
I hope madame is satisfied with the prettiest baby in 
Paris?” 

“My little daughter, — my little daughter.” Eliza- 
beth said the words over to herself. A girl with her 
eyes, her nature. God save her from her fate! She 
would need to have a great many prayers said for her, 
this little one. 

Two weeks more went by before Elizabeth could sit 
up, — and two weeks after that before she could go out 
into the beautiful summer, and gather the flowers of 
which the wide, rambling, old-fashioned garden, far 
down underneath her windows, was full. During all 
this time Dr. Erskine came daily, and brought in the 
sunshine with him, — sunshine blossoming in roses and 


90 


SOME WOMEN-^S HEARTS. 

f 

jasmine, or globed in luscious fruits. And Elizabeth 
was happy, for the first time in her life, with an untold, 
indescribable happiness. She thought it was all because 
of the baby fingers with their waxen touches, the ten- 
der lips which drained her sorrow dry. 

The baby, — whom she had named Marian Nugent, 
after her mother, but whom every one called 
nonne^^ or cheriej'^ or ‘‘little angel,” — was indeed 
queen of the old house in the Rue Jacob. Madame 
Ponsard adored the little one. Childless through all 
her life herself, the instinct of motherhood, so powerful 
with women, came now to the surface, and ovei-flowed 
in devotion to this child, born under her roof, and half 
her own, therefore, as she reasoned. Monsieur Ponsard 
drank less absinthe, and gave up a good many games 
of baccarat, to look wonderingly at this new importa- 
tion from Heaven, this last and most touching of mira- 
cles. The gay widow on the first floor, even, came up 
to lay her offerings on the universal shrine. And as for 
the doctor, it became a customary thing not only for 
him to spend half his leisure time indoors, wherever the 
white-robed wonder might be found, but to take it 
down with him, and out into the garden, in his great, 
strong, tender arms. 

Elizabeth’s eyes and heart kindled over the new sight 
of a man so masterful and yet so gentle. When she 
got well enough, she used to follow down to the old 
garden, and sit there, and look after him and her baby, 
as they went to and fro among the flowers. Sometimes 
the little one would go to sleep, and then Dr. Erskiiie 


WHILE THE MUSIC PLAYED, 


91 


would bring her and lay her in her mother’s arms, and 
stay and watch them both, and talk of “ life, death, and 
the vast forever ; ” or Elizabeth would tell him stories 
of her old life in Lenox, — never, by any chance, of her 
sad married years, — making pictures for him of each old 
scene, till hills and trees and arching sky grew familiar 
to his thought as to her own. Then, when the after- 
noon began to grow chill, he would hurry them both 
in again, — these two, whom he liked still to call his 
patients. 

So peacefully and blessedly August and September 
went by. Elizabeth never stopped to think what gave 
to this wine of life she was quaffing its so keen zest. 
Sometimes, when she loved her baby most, and was 
happiest in all its untold sweetness, an accusing prick of 
conscience would bring the child’s father to her mind, — 
not as lover or husband of her own, not even as the 
cool, cynical Mephistopheles of her life, but purely in 
his aspect of the child’s father, who had been defrauded 
by her act of all these delights which made her own 
heart so rich. But she tried to think that she had acted 
for the best, and that Heaven itself, in giving her the 
means of deliverance, had endorsed her course. Nor did 
these conscience pricks come often to sting their pain 
through her pleasure. For the most part she was en- 
tirely, overflowingly happy, as she had never been 
before, without thought or care for yesterday or to- 
morrow. 

With October, the winds blowing down from the 
North Sea grew chiller; and it was only now and then 


92 


SOME WOMEN'^B HEARTS. 


that there was a day bright enough to take little Marian 
into the garden. But still Dr. Erskine continued his 
daily visits. Elizabeth declared that she was jealous, 
because the baby stretched out her hands to go to him, 
before she had ever accorded her a similar token of 
preference. It was a very good-natured jealousy which 
she felt, however; and somehow it gave a wonderful 
brightness to her face. 

One day the doctor insisted that she should go with 
him for a ramble in the gardens of the Tuileries. Lit- 
tle Marian would do excellently with Madame Ponsard, 
he said; and Madame Nugent herself was certainly 
suffering for a breath of fresh air. 

‘‘ He has a right to command you,” Madame Ponsard 
remarked while the question was pending. “But for 
him neither you nor the child would be alive to-day.” 

So Elizabeth tied on her bonnet and went, — the first 
walk she had ever taken with Dr. Erskine. 

They were very silent, as they wandered round the 
grand old gardens which Le Notre laid out in the sev- 
enteenth century, — Le Notre, w^hose dust long ago, let 
us hope, blossomed in roses. They went on till they 
came to Coustou’s Venus, and sat down on the old stone 
bench near at hand, to look at that vision of sculptured 
grace. Then, at last. Dr. Erskine said, — “The time 
is nearly come at which I purposed to return to 
America.” 

Elizabeth felt a curious sensation of chill, though the 
October sun was shining. Just then the band began to 
play some slow, sad music The time came afterwards 


WHILE THE^ MUSIC PLAYED. 


93 


when, standing face to face with death, as she thought, 
she seemed to see again those stately gardens, to look 
at Coustou’s statue, and to hear the slow, sad music 
play, and Dr. Erskine’s voice telling her it was almost 
time for them to part. It was the first time she had 
realized that he and she and Madame Ponsard, and the 
baby they all loved, were not to go on eternally, just 
as they had been going on for the swift, short two 
months which lay behind her. She drew a sharp 
breath, but she did not speak. 

And the band played, and the October sun shone, and 
the prophetic wind blew from the north through all the 
trees, and after a while Dr. Erskine spoke again. 

“ I have no right, I know, to ask the question, but if 
you feel towards me enough like a friend to give me 
your confidence, will you tell me just this one thing, — 
was your marriage a happy one ? ” 

«No.” 

She could not have spoken another word. She won- 
dered how that one had got itself said through the 
chill that was stiffening her lips and turning her heart 
to stone. 

After a little space. Dr. Erskine’s voice came to her, 
low, clear, and yet, as it seemed, from far away, — “ If 
you had said yes, I should not have told you what I am 
going to tell you now. I love you very dearly. I am 
thirty-eight years old, and I never loved a woman be- 
fore. I should not have dared to say this to you if I 
had thought there was nothing but a grave between 
you and a man whom you had loved. But, if you have 


94 


SOME WOMEN'' S HEARTS. 


never been made happy, let me make yon happy. I 
can. I will. Do you believe me ? ” 

Did she believe him ? Oh, God, did she not believe 
him? Had her punishment overtaken her? — for now 
she felt that in fleeing from Fate she had failed to 
evade Responsibility, or escape Retribution. She made 
a strong efibrt, and forced her lips to articulate the 
words which almost refused to come. 

‘‘ I must not hear another word. I have no right.” 

“No right?” 

“No, for my husband is not dead. I am still the 
wife of Marian’s father.” 

She was frightened at the look his face took on, — 
such a look as she had never seen a man’s face wear 
before. She made haste to tell him her story, — briefly 
as she could, but not sparing herself, or withholding 
any thing of the truth. And meantime the children 
wandered round with their bonnes^ fashionable ladies 
passed with their cavaliers, — the autumn sun shone, 
the autumn wind blew, and the slow, sad music played. 

When all was told, she looked timidly up into his 
face. Heavens ! how sweet hers was ! the dark eyes 
full of passionate appeal, the scarlet lips trembling. 
He was almost mad enough to kiss those lips then and 
there, — to tell her there was no law on earth so 
potent as that law of the soul which gave them to 
each other. Into the turbulence of his mood her low, 
pleading voice stole, — “ Dr. Erskine, do you blame me 
so very much ? I was young, and I thought I cared 
for him at flrst. Afterwards I know I ought to have 


WHILE THE MUSIC PLAYED, 


95 


been more patient ; and I did very wrong to come 
away. But my punishment has overtaken me.” 

“Yours!” How his eyes kindled over her. it 

a punishment to you ? Do you care ? ” 

“ Do you think I could give you pain, — you who 
saved my life, and baby’s, — and not care ? ” 

“ But for yourself, I mean. Elizabeth, have you any 
heart ? ” 

The swift color flushing the poor, pale face answered 
-him better than her low words, — “ For myself I have 
no right to care. I deserve any sufiering that may 
come; but you are blameless.” 

“Tell me one thing, — just one. If you were fi'ee, 
what then? Do you think I could have made you 
happy?” 

“You are cruel. I will not think. God help me, 
I dare not.” 

The last words were so low, his strained ears could 
scarcely catch them. Just then Satan was tempting 
him sorely. He had not needed to be taken into any 
high mountain to see what for him would have out- 
weighed all the kingdoms of this world, and the glory 
of them. He had never yet compromised with his con- 
science ; but he was trying to do it'now. 

“Why should she not be held free, in this new 
world, from the old ties ? ” the Tempter was whisper- 
ing. “ You saved her life. Have you then no claim on 
it? Could you not make yourself a law to her soul? 
Does she not love you enough to obey you? You love 
lier, — you would make her happy. That other man 


96 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


never loved her. God never joined those two together, 
— why should they not be put asunder ? Are they 
not more utterly asunder already than even Death 
could ever make two who loved ? ” 

He listened to these subtle whispers, coming gradu- 
ally to believe in them, till the music ceased to play, its 
hour being over ; till bonnes and children began to go 
away, and then he got up and gave Madame [N'ugent 
his arm. 

As they walked, he said to her, — “ Do you mean 
ever to go back to the old ties ? ” 

‘‘Never !” she answered, upon her first impulse. 

“ Then, — - old things having passed away, — why 
should not all things become new? Elizabeth, you 
think I saved your life. Give it for ever into my keep- 
ing. You know how I will care for you and the child. 
I think I have a right to you. Oh, my darling, my 
darling, come and lay your destiny in my hands.” 

She turned on him eyes dark with unutterable 
woe. In her voice there was the faintest quiver of 
reproach. 

“It is not your best self which is speaking, Dr. 
Erskine,” she said, mournfully. “ I think you care for 
me too much to tempt me, if you realized what you 
were saying. I will never do any thing to make myself 
unworthy to be Marian’s mother ; and, however we may 
reason about the matter, the simple truth remains. 
I am that man’s wife, and no sophistry can make it 
right for me to hear words of love from any other.” 

She had uttered these sentences with an effort which 


WHILE THE MUSIO PLAYED, 


9T 


made her faint ; but there was in them no faltering of 
purpose. After they were spoken, the two walked 
home in silence. 

The next morning, a note was given to Elizabeth, 
which contained only these words : — 

“You were right, and I was wrong. I would not 
tempt you to be other than you are, — the purest as the 
fairest woman, in my eyes, whom God ever made. 
I am running away, because I have not just now the 
strength to stay here. You will not see me again for two 
weeks. When I come back, I will be able to meet you 
as I ought, and to prove myself worthy to be your 
friend. John Eeskine ” 

Elizabeth was weak or womanly enough to press 
this note to her lips, in a sudden passion of love 
and pain. Then she caught up her baby, and kissed 
its soft, unconscious cheeks, talking her heart out to it, 
as mothers do, — as she could not have done to any 
one else on earth. 

“ Well, baby, dear, we must learn to do without him. 
He will go away across the great, wide sea; and we 
must be all the world to each other, you and I, — what 
an empty world, when he is gone out of it.” 

But either the sudden passion of her kisses fright- 
ened the child, or the sadness of her voice saddened it, 
— it burst into one of its infrequent fits of sobbing ; 
and Elizabeth, taught unselfishness by motherhood, as 
women are, had to put aside her own pain, and comfort 
her little one. 

5 


G 


05 


BOMB WOMEN'S HEARTS. 


CHAPTER X. 

DUST AND ASHES. 

Did the tender lips which Heaven had sent Elizabeth 
to “ drain her sorrow dry,” draw fi’om her the passion- 
ate despair, the torturing unrest, of her mood at this 
time ? I have sometimes thought so. 

While she was happy, the little one had grown and 
flourished, — been a radiant incarnation of joy and de- 
light. Now, in these days when it seemed to the mother 
as if all God’s billows were passing over her, the child 
began to droop. She was never like herself again after 
Dr. Erskine went away. At first Madame Ponsard 
said, laughingly, that the little angel missed the doctor. 
But after a few days neither she nor any one else 
laughed when they spoke of the baby. 

From morning till night Elizabeth held the little 
creature in her arms, watching the dark, questioning 
eyes, fondling the thin, transparent fingers, kissing the 
flushed yet wasting cheeks. 

“ Oh, if Dr. Erskine would but come back ! ” was all 
the time the burden of her longing. He had saved that 
little life once, — surely it must be, she thought, that 
he could save it again. For herself no matter. She 
knew now how easy it would have been to love him, — 
how dangerously near she had come to being willing 
to give up earth and Heaven for his sake, — and she 


BUST AND ASHES, 


99 


thought that the blight which had fallen upon her 
child was the swift and sudden retribution for this sin 
of her soul. Oh, 7nust this little innocent life pay the 
penalty for her? If only the child could be saved, 
she would go away with it somew^here, and never see 
Dr. Erskine again, — never even think of him, if she 
could help it. 

Sometimes, in the midst of all this, her conscience 
asked her whether the sin for which she was suffering 
might not lie further back still. Had she not com- 
mitted it when she fled away secretly from the home 
where God’s Providence had set her feet, — the man to 
whom she had promised to cleave till death parted 
them ? W ell, she would do her best to atone now. 
If only her baby could be spared, she would go back 
and humble herself at her husband’s feet.» He should 
have his child, if he would, — he should pass sentence 
on her, and she would abide by it, — only let the baby 
live. 

It was the old Romish notion of buying Heaven 
by sacrifice ; and yet how naturally it comes to all of 
us in moments of anguish. Let but this cup pass from 
us, and we will drink any other, — only let it pass. 

He was divine who, even in that first moment when 
agony beyond human conception forced from His lips 
this cry, added to it, — “Hot my will, but thine be 
done.” When this grace comes to mortals, it is the 
rainbow after the storm is spent. 

Little Marian had been sick a week, when, one 
morning, Madame Ponsard looked at her more gravely 


100 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


than usual. “We must call a doctor,” she said. “It 
will not do to let this go on. Little Cherie is wasting 
away.” 

Elizabeth lifted her heavy, swollen eyes. “ Is there 
n3 way to send for Dr. Erskine? I do not think any 
one else would help her.” 

Madame went down to the concierge herself, in her 
eagerness, and came back presently with slower 
steps. 

“ He left no word where he was going. He said he 
should be gone two weeks, and his letters must be kept 
for him. I think we ought not to wait.” 

“Send, then, for whomever you please. I believe 
that no one else will do her any good ; still we can try. 
But you must make the strange doctor understand 
plainly, in the first place, that he must give up the 
case to Dr. Erskine, whenever he comes.” 

And then, as madame went out of the room, she 
burst into a low, heart-broken wail, — “ He won’t come, 
he won’t come. God means my little one to die. And 
I have deserved it all.” 

Half an hour afterwards, a chatty French doctor sat 
watching Elizabeth’s baby. He was heartily sorry for 
the poor young mother, and was kind to her, after his 
own lights. But he thought words would cheer her; 
whereas they went nigh to drive her mad. At last 
some cord snapped, and her weak nerves or her weak 
patience gave way. 

“I cannot bear talking,” she said, with a petulance 
which held in it something touching. “ Please only tell 


4 : 


DUST AND ASHES. 


101 


me what you think of her, — whether she will live, — 
and leave us alone.” 

Good Dr. Boufibn was not disturbed. He hoped he 
could make allowance for ladies’ nerves, he told Ma- 
dame Ponsard afterwards. He answered Elizabeth with 
a calmness which she found intensely exasperating. 

“ It is impossible to say, dear madaine, — quite im- 
possible. She can never have been strong.” 

“ Oh, she has been the healthiest little creature,” 
Madame Ponsard interposed. 

Dr. Boufibn bowed. 

“ Exactly, but health is not always strength. As I 
said, she could never have been strong. I have written 
the prescription which I think the case needs. For the 
result we must wait.” 

Then he bowed himself out. Madame Ponsard fol- 
lowed him, and Elizabeth sat holding her child alone. 

Any other observer might not have considered its 
illness quite unaccountable. A first tooth was swelling 
its gums. A second summer had set in for a few days, 
burning October with the pitiless suns of July. There 
was a languor in the air which oppressed stronger con- 
stitutions. But Elizabeth associated the occult malady 
which was sapping the foundations of her darling^s life, 
with none of these things. To her it seemed a direct 
judgment from Heaven, — the execution of the sen- 
tence eternal justice had pronounced upon her. She 
lost sight of the beatific vision, which had once blessed 
her soul ; of a Father, loving even while He chastened; 
and with something of a heathen’s spirit, she set about 


102 


SOME WOMEN’^S EEABTS. 


offering her propitiatory sacrifice to offended Jove. She 
put out of her arms her baby, asleep now, and wrote to 
Elliott Le Roy these words : — 

‘‘Your child was born the 28th of Jane. 1 did not 
know of this which was to come when I left the shelter 
of your roof, or I should not have gone. The little one 
is very ill ; and, feeling that she may not live, I think 
it right to give you the opportunity of seeing her, if you 
wish to, before she dies. Come, if you choose, to No. 
50, Rue Jacob, and you will find her. 

“Elizabeth Le Roy.” 

Then, when Madame Ponsard came back, she told 
her story, and the contents of the letter which she 
wished posted. Madame was surprised and a little 
startled, but received the disclosure with the composure 
and tact of a French woman, and began calling her 
boarder Madame Le Roy as fluently as she had hitherto 
called her Madame Nugent. 

Now, Elizabeth thought, she had given up her own 
will, — made the greatest sacrifice in her power. Now, 
perhaps, destiny would relent. But the days passed 
on, and brought with them no healing. The intense 
heat went by. It was clear, beautiful October weather, 
but still the child drooped, and daily the tiny hands 
grew more waxen, and the blue veins showed more 
clearly through the transparent temples. 

On the afternoon of the fourteenth day. Dr. Erskine 
walked into the room where Elizabeth sat, as usual, 
holding her child. She lifted her languid eyes, but she 


DUST AND ASHES. 


103 


did not speak. Not even a thrill of hope stirred her 
pulses. She felt in her soul that his coming was too 
late. He stood beside her, silent as herself, looking 
down at the child. Then he knelt, and counted its 
pulse-beats. 

“ Madame told me she was ill,” he said, “ but I did 
not expect to see her like this. I shall never forgive 
myself that I was not here to help you nurse her.” 

“ It might have done no good,” Elizabeth answered, 
so drearily that it went to his heart. I think God 
meant her to die. It is my punishment. I have been 
altogether wrong. But now I have done my best to 
atone. A week ago I sent for him^ — Marian’s father. 
He will be here in less than three weeks if he cares to 
see her. Do you think we can keep her alive so long ? ” 

She did not look at Dr. Erskine, or she would have 
seen a tense white line round his lips, which would have 
told her how he was suffering. He waited a moment 
till he could speak calmly. Then he answered her. 

“We will try. I dare not promise you that she will 
get well. I think she is wasting away. She has your 
highly wrought temperament, and I could have told 
you that she never was strong.” 

“So Dr. Bouffon said, but I did not believe him. 
She has been so lovely.” 

“ Yes> and it was partly her very frailness that made 
her so fair. But now you must give her up to me, and 
take some rest. Go down into the garden, and get the 
fresh air. Has there been no one to tell you how much 
her well-being depended upon your health ? ” 


104 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS, 


She gave the child to him obediently. For days 
Madame Ponsard had pleaded in vain to be allowed to 
hold her, and Elizabeth had clung to her obstinately ; 
but it seemed another thing to trust her to Dr. Ers- 
kine. 

Two weeks more went on, during which they watched 
together over that ebbing life. They seldom spoke to 
each other through this time ; but now and then, out 
of the anguish of Elizabeth’s tortured heart, would be 
wrung some cry which she would have suppressed be- 
fore any witness but him. 

‘‘ If she could but have lived,” she would say some- 
times, “to speak to me, to call me mother just once, I 
think I could bear it better.” 

Once, in the bitterness of her despair, she cried, — 
“ Oh, if she were not quite so pure ! If she had only 
lived to be soiled ever so little by human sin, I might 
hope to see her again, — but now she will go to the 
highest heaven, and I can never find her in all eter- 
nity.” 

To this Dr. Erskine made answer, or through him 
some holier voice spoke, — “I think the highest heaven 
is for those who have struggled and conquered, sinned 
and repented, rather than for those who have been 
spared alike all struggle and all pain. But I do not 
believe whole eternities can separate a mother from her 
child.” 

There came a morning at last when the baby’s eyes 
did not open. Dr. Erskine felt the heart throb faintly 
under his fingers, but he knew it was beating its last. 


DUST AND ASHES. 


105 


He trembled for Elizabeth, and dared not tell her. She 
anticipated him. 

“ Doctor,” she said, — and her voice was so passion- 
less that it might almost have belonged to a disem- 
bodied spirit, — “I know that my darling is dying.” 

He bowed his head mutely. Her very calmness 
awed him. 

“ Is there any thing you can do to ease her ? ” 

“Nothing. I do not think she suffers.” 

“ Then will you please to go away ? She is mine, — 
nobody’s but mine, in her life and in her death, and I 
want her quite to myself at the last.” 

Sorrowfully enough he left her. 

Elizabeth held her child closely, but gently. She 
thought in that hour that she had never loved any thing 
else, — never in this world should love any thing again. 
She wanted to cry, but her eyes were dry and burning, 
and not a tear fell on the little upturned face, changing 
so fast to marble. She bent over, and whispered some- 
thing in the baby’s ear, — a wild, passionate prayer that 
it would remember her, and know her again in the infi- 
nite spaces. A look seemed to answer her, — a radiant, 
loving look, which she thought must be born of the near 
heaven. She pressed her lips in a last despairing agony 
of love to the little face, from which already, as sbe 
kissed it, the soul had fied. Her white wonder had 
gone home. This which lay upon her hungry heart 
was stone. 

An hour afterward Dr. Erskine went in, and saw the 
motionless mother holding to her breast the motionless 
b* 


106 


SOME WOMEN^S HEABTS. 


child ; and his first thought was that they had both died 
together. 

But when he went up to take the child from her 
arms, Elizabeth clung to it with a passionate clasp. 
With infinite gentleness he entreated her to go out into 
the cool, reviving air, and leave for awhile her dead 
darling to the ministrations of Madame Ponsard. She 
obeyed him, in a patient, passive way, as if because to 
obey was less trouble than to resist ; and he made her 
go down into the old summer-house. She sat there in 
utter silence, for an hour, conscious, as it seemed, of 
nothing which surrounded her, least of all of the tender 
pity in his watching face. 

At last Madame Ponsard came down, and made a 
sign to him, and he got up and spoke to Elizabeth. 

“Come, now,” he said, “you may go back to the 
baby.” 

Her face lightened a little, and she got up and fol- 
lowed him. 

The dead little queen of the Hue Jacob lay on her 
own tiny bed, made all fresh and sweet for her recep- 
tion. She was robed in her richest garments, heavy 
with lace and embroidery, and in her hand was clasped a 
half-opened white rose-bud, as pure and pale as herself. 

Elizabeth looked at her, and then turned to Madame 
Ponsard and Dr. Erskine, with such entreaty in her 
face, as brought the tears to both their eyes. 

“ Indeed,” she said, “ I am not ungrateful, but I shall 
have her such a little, little while. Mayn’t I stay with 
her all alone ? ” 


DUST AND ASHES, 


107 


And so they both went out. 

Once or twice, during the day, Madame Ponsard 
carried her something to eat or drink, and she took it 
with a sort of weary and patient submission, which 
was inexpressibly pitiful. Save for these brief inter- 
ruptions, she sat all day quite alone with her dead. 

At night Madame Ponsard went to her with a ques- 
tion. It was grievous to Madame’s kind heart to see 
this silent anguish, which neither words or tears re- 
lieved, and which was so foreign to her own nature. 
She thought, if once the baby could be buried out of 
sight, Madame Le Roy would be able to cry, and by 
and by to grow cheerful once more. So she went to 
ask whether she should make arrangements for the 
funeral to-morrow or the day after. 

The question roused Elizabeth. 

“ Not to-morrow,” she answered, “ and not the day 
after. I have sent for her father to see her. I will 
wait, and give him time. Let me keep her as long as 
I can. She was all I had.” 

So through the night, as through the day, she kept 
her solitary vigil. 

The next morning Dr. Erskine came to her. There 
were the traces on his face of a conflict with himself, 
but his words to Elizabeth were few. 

“ I am going into Brittany for a few weeks. I think 
it is best.” 

“ I think it is,” she answered, drearily, 

“ Good-by, Elizabeth.” 

Good-by.” 


108 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


The hand she laid for an instant in his was cold as 
death. No pulse quickened at his clasp, and she turned 
from him, as if even so few words had wearied her, to 
look again at the still face, the little dark-lashed eyes 
that would never open, the frozen lips that her kisses 
could never warm. 

Dr. Erskine turned, and looked also, for a few silent 
moments, at the dead little queen he had loved so well, 
and served so faithfully. Then he stooped down, and 
pressed his lips to the tiny, stirless face, and was 
gone. 

Elizabeth scarcely knew it when he went out of the 
room. For the time her passion of woe had absorbed 
every other emotion, save the one grim thought which 
would not be absorbed, — that Le Roy might be almost 
there, — that she was waiting for her Judge. 

And so for two days more she sat there, — her arms 
empty, her heart faint with its hunger, her future so 
near that she seemed to feel an icy blast of its air. 


CHAPTER XL 

A GATE OF FLAME AND A GATE OF FLOOD. 

Toward noon of the third day after the baby died, 
Madame Ponsard came to Elizabeth, and asked her to 
go for a moment into her sitting-room. With a shiver 
running through every limb, Elizabeth got up and 


GATE OF FLAME AND GATE OF FLOOD. 109 


crossed tiie hall. She found herself face to face with 
Elliott Le Roy. She waited for him to speak. 

The soulless gallantry which had stung her so often 
was gone in this crisis, from his manner; replaced, 
indeed, by a half-brutal hardness, which yet hurt her 
less than his mocking courtesy would have done. 

‘‘ I came to see my child,” he said. 

It never entered Elizabeth’s mind to spare him any 
shock, — she had always thought of him as without the 
capacity for feeling one. So she silently led the way 
to her own room, and pointed to the bed. 

He looked for an instant at the little bit of pulseless 
marble lying there, with the white rose of peace in the 
sculptured fingers. Then she saw him grow white to 
the lips, and heard his cry, full of an awful passion of 
longing, — 

“ Dead ! dead ! Oh, God ! my little child ! ” 

She understood then, that even this heart of stone 
held the instinct of fatherhood. He could have loved 
his child. 

She stole away noiselessly. 

Whether he wept or cursed she never knew. When 
he came out, half an hour afterward, he was his hard, 
cold, mocking self again. 

He asked a few questions regarding the time and 
manner of the baby’s death ; then went away to make 
the arrangements for its burial, which he communicated 
to Elizabeth in a brief note. 

She did not see him again till he came next day to 
go with her to Pere la Chaise. They took the casket 


no 


SOME WOMEN''S HEARTS. 


which held the little Marian with themselves, in the 
carriage which headed the short funeral cortege. They 
two, — alone at last with each other and the dead. 
But during all the drive neither of them spoke. Eliza- 
beth was calm. It seemed to her that a mortal chill 
had hushed all the unrest and passion of her nature, — 
that she should never cry again, or smile, or care for 
any thing which went on around her. 

But just at the last, when they were lowering her 
darling into the grave, when she heard the English 
minister say, solemnly, — “ Earth to earth, dust to 
dust, ashes to ashes,” she felt all this impassive coldness 
break up suddenly, and heedless of every thing but the 
little lump of clay, which she could never, never see 
again, she sank down beside the grave, and sobbed till 
she could sob no longer, and they lifted her up and put 
her into the second carriage of the small procession, 
where Madame Ponsard received her in her kind 
arms, and supported her all the way home, comforting 
and soothing her as only one kind woman can soothe 
and comfort another. 

Le Roy went back in his own carriage, vis-a-vis with 
Monsieur Ponsard, who had left his wife to make 
room for Elizabeth, — went back, as he had come, in 
grim silence. 

The next morning he came early to the old house 
in the Rue Jacob, and went into Elizabeth’s sitting- 
room. He spoke to her with quiet decision. 

“ You will have to pack to-day ; for we must leave at 
six this evening for Havre. A steamer sails to-morrow, 
and I have telegraphed to secure our places.” 


GATE OF FLAME AND GATE OF FLOOD, 111 


Elizabeth looked at him in blank wonder. 

‘‘ Am I going back with you ? ” she asked. 

“ It appears to me to be the only thing for you to do, 
Mrs. Le Roy. Remember our marriage has not been 
dissolved. It binds us still, though its sole fruit is dust 
and ashes.” 

Elizabeth had made up her mind, beforehand, to 
submit herself to his judgment. She had found that 
for her freedom was not safety, even though she prayed 
every night not to be led into temptatjon. But now 
that the crisis had come, the struggle to submit was 
harder than she had expected. Every pulse was in 
mutiny. Still she offered no resistance; except that 
once she asked him if it would not embarrass him to 
take her back among his friends. 

“ Not in the least,” he answered, coolly. “ Not one 
of them suspects that your absence was without my 
knowledge and consent ; or supposes me ignorant of 
any of your movements.” 

The man’s cool mastery over circumstances aston- 
ished Elizabeth into another question. 

“ What did you tell them ? ” 

That an excellent opportunity presented itself dur- 
ing my absence for you to travel with some friends of 
your own, and as your health was not good, I had 
written to you to accept it.” 

“ But the servants ? ” 

‘‘Thanks to your silence, Jcnew nothing, and I 
think they would scarcely have cared to retail their 
conjectures at the expense of my displeasure.” 


112 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


“ But you did not know that you could ever find me,’’ 
she said at last, amazed at his audacity. 

Le Roy smiled the cold, glittering, cynical smile she 
remembered so well. An evil gleam of triumph shot 
fi’om his pitiless eyes. 

I traced Madame Nugent without diificulty as soon 
as I retpurned from Cuba. I should have come for 
you, in any case, when I thought it time for you to 
return.” 

She had called this man the Mephistopheles of her 
life before ; but never with such good reason as now, 
when he stood in front of her, smiling his mocking smile, 
exulting scornfully in his easy triumph. He had said 
once that he should hdld on to her like fate, — and now 
she knew that she had never yet been entirely out of 
his power. Why should she engage in any vain strug- 
gle against his will ? 

From the very beginning of their homeward journey, 
destiny seemed to oppose itself to them, bringing to its 
aid all the perversity of inanimate things. A railroad 
accident, not serious, but most annoying, made their 
journey to Havre fifteen hours long, instead of six, so 
that when they reached their destination, towards noon 
on the fifteenth, the American steamer had been gone 
three hours. 

Le Roy took Elizabeth to a hotel, where a fresh- 
colored maid, wearing a high Norman cap, brought 
her cofifee, and went out himself to reconnoitre. He 
came in, half an hour afterwards, with his morning 
paper in his hand. 


GATE OF FLAME AND GATE OF FLOOD. 113 


“ There will be no other steamer from here till the 
first of next month,” he said. 

Are we to wait here, or go back to Paris ? ” Eliza- 
beth asked, feeling like a foot-ball which he and des- 
tiny were knocking back and forth between them, and 
waiting passively for the next push. 

“ Neither. My first thought was to go to Liverpool, 
and take the first Cunarder from there ; but I see by a 
telegraphic despatch in the Messenger^ that a steamer 
which left Hamburg last evening will stop at South- 
ampton. We can sail for there to-night, after a day’s 
rest here, and catch this German steamer for New 
York. Does this plan meet your approval, Mrs. Le 
Roy?” 

“All plans are alike to me,” Elizabeth answered, 
wearily. “ If we are going to take the German steamer, 
may I telegraph to Madame Ponsard ? She made me 
promise to send her word of my arrival here if I could. 
She thought we were going in the Fulton ; and she will 
want to look out for news of us.” 

“ Gratify your sentimental friend, by all means,” Le 
Roy said, with a little sneer. “Write your dispatch, 
and I will see that it is sent.” 

Elizabeth wrote : — 

“We were too late for the Fulton, and are going to 
Southampton to take the German steamer from Ham- 
burg. Good-by.” 

She did not know why she said good-by over again 
by telegraph, — she certainly did not believe in pre- 

H 


114 


SOME WOMEN'^B HEARTS. 


sentiments, but some subtle foreboding of evil was assail- 
ing her, for which she did not try to account. 

The next day, at Southampton, they went on board 
the German steamer, which set sail at quite a late hour 
in the afternoon. A heavy mist settled down with the 
twilight, and it was considered advisable to anchor the 
vessel between the Isle of Wight and the main-land. 
Early next morning they weighed anchor again, and in 
the process one of the crew lost his life. Owing to 
some mismanagement, the anchor ran out, whirling the 
capstan round with terrific force, and hurling the men 
in all directions. One was thrown overboard, and was 
supposed to have been instantly killed, as he never rose 
to the surface. This accident cast a gloom over the 
oflicers and crew, which any one familiar with the 
superstitions of the sea would readily understand. 

“ He’s gone down below to tell ’em we’re all cornin’,” 
one white-lipped sailor said to another ; and the shadow 
fell upon them all. They were silent and depressed for 
days, though every thing seemed to promise a pros- 
perous v6yage. 

Once at sea, and the confusion and excitement of 
embarkation over, Elizabeth settled into a strange, sad 
calm. Her presentiment of evil, though she had not 
forgotten it, ceased in any degree to absorb her 
thoughts. Every day, and all the day, she sat motion- 
less and silent on the deck, looking into the troubled 
sea, or equally motionless and silent in her state-room. 
But everywhere she looked, into yeasty waves, or empty 
air, she saw one face only, — her child’s. Madame 


GATE OF FLAME AND GATE OF FLOOD. 115 


Ponsard, and the rest of them at the Rtie Jacob ; even 
Dr. Erskine himself came sometimes into the picture of 
which this face was the centre, but only as accessories 
to it. They seemed blank of human significance to her 
as the angles of a wall. 

Of only one thing besides that face was she intensely 
conscious, and that was of Le Roy, — that he, her 
keeper, was breathing the same air with her, was carry- 
ing her home. How mad she had been ever to think 
that she could escape him. She wondered if through 
all eternity he would be beside her, and she should see 
for ever that face of pitiless power and mocking scorn. 
But it was very seldom that he came near her ; and 
when they had been eight days at sea they had hardly 
spoken as many words to each other, beyond those 
demanded in the presence of others by the ordinary 
small courtesies of life. 

On the afternoon of the ninth day, Elizabeth had 
come out of the state-room, and was standing quite by 
herself, looking into the surging autumn sea, but seeing 
only the one small face which for her filled sea and sky. 

After a while she heard a wild and awful shriek, — ■ 
the cry of fire, — horrible anywhere, but most unearthly 
and hideous in its horror far out at sea, when the flames 
are burning the one plank betwixt you and death. 

By whom the cry was started, no one knew, but 
hundreds of voices took it up, and swelled it to a yell 
of madness and despair. A dense volume of smoke 
burst from the steerage, and then the flames broke 
through the lights, and leaped and crackled along the 
deck. 


116 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


That first shriek had roused Elizabeth to something^ 
which was scarcely terror, — awful expectation, rather. 
Her foreboding was realized. Death was at last waiting 
for her. She had tasted the apple of life and found it 
bitter. What next ? 

She did not join in the wailing which went up to the 
unheeding sky. She no longer seemed to see the face 
of her little child. It had vanished like a vision. She 
looked down still into the sea, but she saw something 
else. Face to face with death, she seemed strangely 
enough to be living over again an hour of most intense 
and thrilling life. An October afternoon came back to 
her so vividly, that she seemed not to be standing on a 
burning ship, betwixt pitiless sky and pitiless sea ; but 
sitting in a fair French garden, near Cous ton’s Venus, 
while the autumn sun shone, and the autumn wind blew, 
and the slow, sad music played, and through it all she 
heard Dr. Erskine’s voice saying things which she had 
no right to hear. It was all so sweet, and sad, and 
wrong, — and now death was waiting for her. 

How much had she sinned, she wondered. Was she 
past hoping for Heaven ? God knew all, — temptation 
and sin and struggle, — God knew. Through all her 
turmoil and unrest, that thought filled her soul witn a 
great calm. Simply as a child she said her prayer. 

“ Oh, God ! oh. Father ! suffer not my soul to perish . 
Take me home by flame or flood, as Thou wilt, but take 
me home ! ” 

Meantime, a wild panic, of which she was altogether 
unconscious, had swept through the ship. From the 


GATE OF FLAME AND GATE OF FLOOD. 117 


very beginning of the voyage, when the sailor’s life was 
lost at the weighing of the anchor, a secret terror had 
ruled the hearts of officers and crew. Now, with the 
first alarm, all presence of mind forsook them. The man 
at the wheel left his post, and the vessel being head to 
the wind, the flames swept back over her with awful 
rapidity. The captain was among the first to lose his 
self-command. Mad with panic terror, he attempted, 
forsaking all, to lower himself into a boat, and missing 
his foothold, was swept away. Then the wildest con- 
fusion began to reign. Boats were lowered, and some 
of them swamped in the very act of lowering. Those 
rushed into them who could, while others jumped into 
the sea, to escape the swift, hot pursuit of the flames. 

At last Le Roy came to Elizabeth. He had been 
calm and clear-sighted through it all, waiting his oppor- 
tunity. Now, as he thought, he saw it. A boat only 
partly filled, lay under the davits, on one side. 

“ Come,” he said, pulling her along with him, swiftly. 

He took a cloak from his own shoulders, and wrapped 
it round her, then lowered her from the vessel, and she 
was in the boat almost before she knew it. She looked 
back for him. He had stood aside for two more 
women. The officer in charge of the boat shouted, — 
“ Keep off ! We are full ! another man would swamp 
us ! ” and at a sign from him, the men caught up their 
oars. 

Just as, in defiance of the officer’s warning shout, Le 
Roy was swinging himself down, the boat rocked away, 
and he touched the waves instead. 


118 


SOME WOMEN^S IIEAETS, 


In an instant Elizabeth saw that white, satirical face, 
which seemed to mock even at death, looking up at 
her, with an awful light upon it, from the surging, fire- 
lit sea. 

“ Oh, save him ! save him ! for the love of God ! ” she 
cried, penetrated at last with the very passion and mad- 
ness of terror, for that other life, not for her own. But 
no one noticed her cry. The rowers pulled away rap- 
idly, and Elliott Le Roy went down, — as the captain 
had gone down before, — as hundreds of souls went 
down that awful day. 

The engineers had been smothered at their posts 
among the first, so the steamer was going on all this 
time, at a rate of eight or ten knots an hour, as if she 
were trying to escape from the flames of her own burn- 
ing. 

She was an awful beacon, — a great, towering holo- 
caust. The boat which held Elizabeth, pulled with all 
the might of its rowers in her wake. It was their best 
chance for a rescue ; for she was a signal-fire of distress 
the like of which has seldom been kindled. 

Still Elizabeth was calm and silent, but with all her 
faculties fully alive, — ready to live or die, as God 
willed, — anxious only, whether in life or death, to be 
in His keeping. 

She should be glad, she felt, through all eternity, that 
Le Roy’s last act toward her had been one of unselfish 
kindness. If she had any thing to forgive, she could 
forgive it all for the sake of that one moment. She 
had not loved him, nor he her ; but, now that he was 


GATE OF FLAME AND GATE OF FLOOD, 119 


dead, she remembered how she had idealized him once, 
and began to look at him again in the old light, — to 
remember his power and exalt his strength, and see 
him master of circumstance, yielding only to destiny. 

So the doomed steamer went on, grander spectacle 
in her death than she had ever been in her life ; and 
the boat, with its dozen souls, pulled after her; till, just 
as night was settling down, the little company, faint 
with thirst and spent with rowing, saw a ship under 
full sail approaching the burning vessel, and rowed 
toward her with a strength renewed by hope. In an 
hour they got within hailing distance, and before the 
night had quite closed round them she had taken them 
on board. 

The ship proved to be a French barque, taking a 
cargo from Newfoundland to the Isle of Bourbon. 
During the night sixty souls were received on board 
of her. Elizabeth looked anxiously at every one, to see 
if, by some Providence, the sea might not have given 
up its prey, but all were strangers. She thought then 
that she would have laid down her own sad life with 
unutterable content, but to see again in safety one 
face which had looked its last at her from the yeasty 
sea. 

But Elliott Le Roy had gone down, with all the rest 
whom that day, by those gates of Flame and of Flood, 
Death led into the Land of the Hereafter. 


120 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


CHAPTER XIL 

FACE TO FACE. 

Xo trace remained next morning of the fated steamer. 
The sky was as coolly blue as if no fierce flames had 
ever kindled a great funeral pyre below it. The sea 
was tranquil. The day was still. The officers of the 
French barque, seeing that they had done all they could, 
set sail for Fayal, intending to leave there the rescued 
passengers. But before that day was over they fell in 
with another barque, bound for Halifax, to which as 
many as could be accommodated were transferred, and 
among them Elizabeth. 

So it came about that before Christmas her wander- 
ings were over, and she went back again, a widow, in- 
deed, and utterly free now, into that house from which 
she had fled to secure her freedom. 

The excitement through which she had passed had 
roused her effectually fi’om the apathy which had suc- 
ceeded to the death of her little child, and which, other- 
wise, might not improbably have found its termination 
in insanity. She was in full possession of all her 
powers, — a sad woman, the colors of whose life had 
faded, but a woman who was mistress of herself. 

She communicated to Mrs. Murray Le Roy’s death, 
and the manner of it, leaving her to inform the rest of 
the household. Then she sent for her husband’s man 


FACE TO FACE. 


121 


of business, desiring him to close up by spring, if he 
could, all the business details for which her presence 
would be desirable, as she wished to leave New York 
at the earliest possible moment. • 

The time had come to her now, she thought, when 
indeed she was done with life, and ready to go back to 
Lenox, and wait for death under those skies. She felt 
no desire to see any of the old faces ; but her memories 
of the lonely, lovely hills appealed to her irresistibly. 
She thought she had tasted all the keen delights or 
sharp pangs which this life held for her; and now she 
longed only for rest. She wrote to Lawyer Mills, re- 
questing him to secure for her a residence as near to 
her old home as possible ; and learned, in reply, that 
the old home itself would be for sale in the spring. 
The youngest of the “ three Graces,” her cousin Emmie, 
would be married in February, and the widowed mother 
wished to give up housekeeping, and reside alternately 
with her daughters. So she began to look forward 
with homesick longing to the sheltered nook which the 
hills shut in, where she meant to pass the evening of her 
days, — this woman who fancied herself so old at twenty- 
five, that Hope and she had parted company for ever. 

Sometimes, during those months, her thoughts went 
back to the old house in the Rue Jacob. Madame Pon- 
sard would read of the destruction of the ill-fated steamer 
in which she had sailed, and believe her to be dead. 
That was best. She felt no inclination to write, and 
undeceive her. It was better to be dead to that old 
life, — dead as her youth was, and her heart within her. 

6 


122 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS, 


Madame would be sorry, but she would grow gay again 
presently ; though, to be sure, she would never forget 
her or the baby. Elizabeth knew if she should go back 
to Paris, after ten years had gone, she would find im- 
mortelles on little Cherie^s grave, which madame would 
have hung there with pious care, — madame, who, child- 
less herself, had loved that baby face so well. Still 
madame would be hearty, and healthy, and merry, and 
French. 

And Dr. Erskine, — but she always stopped there, 
and told herself that she had no right to think of him 
at all. Of course, he would outgrow the old past, 
which had been only pain at its happiest, and love and 
woo some more fortunate woman ; and that was best, 
too. 

She was content; but, oh, the difference between 
that content which is born of resignation, and that 
other which is the paradise-flower of hope. 

And so the winter wore away, and the spring, — and, 
at last feeling herself, with her share of her husband’s 
fortune, quite too rich for her modest needs, Elizabeth 
went back to Lenox, and took possession of the old 
home, the purchase of which Lawyer Mills had in the 
mean time arranged for her. 

She entered its doors, as it chanced, on the last day 
of May, the seventh anniversary of that day on which 
she had first met Elliott Le Roy. “ Only seven years ! ” 
she said to herself, as this memory came back to her, — 
only seven years, and in them she had weighed the 
world, love, life, in her balances, and found them all 


FACE TO FACE, 


123 


wanting. She had come back at the nightfall, bringing 
no sheaves with her. 

The summer came to her there, in the old home, 
— the brilliant New England summer, with its long, 
blue days, its flush of roses and flow of streams; the 
autumn, with its ripe fruits, and prophetic winds, and 
the haze upon all its hills ; the long, white winter, keen 
and cold as death ; and then the spring came again, and 
‘the summer. 

This space had been for Elizabeth a time of healing. 
Its quiet had fallen upon her soul like a benediction. 
She had lived almost in solitude. The old friends who 
called on her could find no fault with the gentle cour- 
tesy with which she welcomed them ; but she made her 
deep mourning an excuse for not returning their visits, 
and they did not feel free to repeat them. For the most 
part she was alone with Nature; and I think the dear 
old mother seldom fails to comfort the tired children 
who lean close upon her breast. 

Insensibly, gradually, almost imperceptibly, Eliza- 
beth grew towards peace ; until, when the second sum- 
mer came, she had begun to feel that her days were 
good days, — that there was a positive, pure joy in 
being alive, — alive where one could feel the sunshine, 
and hear the birds, and gather the roses. There were 
some keener delights in life, for which her hour was 
passed ; but, just as they were, her days were not bar- 
ren of enjoyment. 

She thought a great deal about her little child ; but 
now her thoughts of it were among her sweetest conso- 


124 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


lations. At one time she had longed to send over the 
sea for the little casket under the sods of Pere la 
Chaise, and bury it anew, where she could go often 
and stand above it in the long and pleasant grass. But 
as her health of mind and body began to be restored, 
she ceased tc wish for this. She thought less of the bit 
of marble she had. buried, with the white rose of peace 
frozen in its sculptured fingers, and more of the immor- 
tal little one, — alive, and free, and still her own, — 
still near her, perhaps ; for she remembered and be- 
lieved what Dr. Erskine had said, that whole eternities 
could not separate a mother from her child. 

She thought, too, very often of Dr. Erskine, — for 
now she believed herself able to think of him unself- 
ishly and abstractly. I told you, long ago, that this 
Elizabeth of mine did not understand herself ; and all 
the experiences through which she had passed had still 
left her on the very threshold of self-knowledge. She 
thought, — because she never expected to see John 
Erskine again, or hear any words from his lips, and, so 
expecting, yet found that skies were blue, and bird- 
songs sweet, and summer days pleasant, and life had 
not lost all its savor, — that the old past in which she 
had felt so niuch for him was as dead as a dead day. 
She honestly believed herself capable of seeing him 
again without an extra heart-beat, — and I rather think 
she would have liked to try the experiment. 

He, meantime, was daring to love her, because he 
believed that she was dead. He knew of the destruction 
of the ill-starred German steamer, and the loss of almost 


FACE TO FACE, 


125 


all her passengers. The short list of the saved had 
never met his eye ; and he thought that Le Roy and 
Elizabeth had gone up together, through flame and 
flood, to stand at God’s bar of judgment, for the final 
solving of the sad problem of their lives. 

How far Elizabeth had been wrong, he did not know 
or question. He only knew that, whether her faults 
were great or small, she was for him the one woman in 
the wide universe of souls ; and to that knowledge he 
trusted, as to a sure pledge, that he should find her 
again in some life, some world. So that all the living 
women on the earth, with all their smiles, their cheeks 
of tempting bloom, their lips ripe for kisses, were less 
to him than the memory of one sweet, sad face, with 
dark eyes which had never answered his pleading, and 
lips which he had never kissed. 

He had staid in Paris for a year, after he returned 
from Brittany and found that Elizabeth had left with 
her husband, and the ship in which they sailed had gone 
down. He had not the courage, at first, to go back, 
and take up the burden of American work-a-day life ; 
so he lingered on, in the French capital, until his mood 
changed, and he began to long for work as a means for 
his own healing. Then he went home; and through 
the winter and spring found himself full of business. A 
friend — the old Boston physician, with whom he had 
studied his profession — took advantage of his return 
to visit Europe himself, leaving his practice in Dr. 
Erskine’s hands. So the Doctor was both busy and 
prosperous. 


126 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


When the summer came, however, he was compara- 
tively at leisure. Almost all of Dr. Gordon’s patients 
went away to sea-side or mountains ; and Dr. Erskine 
found himself able to take a few days of vacation for his 
own pleasure. He used them to make a pilgrimage. 

Ever since his return, he had been longing to go to 
Lenox. His fancy was haunted by the pleasant pictures 
Elizabeth had made of it in the summer afternoons 
when she sat in the old garden of the Rue Jacob, her 
sleeping child upon her knees, while he watched and 
listened, — thinking then that she would be his, some 
day. 

How, it seemed to him that, if souls could come back 
to earth, hers would walk among those hills she had 
loved so well. He almost fancied he should see her, a 
radiant ghost, — a slight, swift shape, with pale, fair 
face, and luminous eyes, and hair of silken dusk, — the 
Elizabeth he had loved and lost. So he went to 
Lenox. 

He left the cars at the railroad station in the village, 
and then walked across the fields by himself. He would 
not ask his way. He thought he could find the old 
Fordyce place, and know it from Elizabeth’s descrip- 
tions. Presently the roomy old house rose before him, 
— the tall trees in front making a leafy darkness, the 
grassy pathway leading up fi*om the gate to the front 
doorstone. He was sure that he had found the spot. 
Just so had Elizabeth described it. Just so, many a 
time, had it risen before his fancy, and he had pictured 
her, a gentle, serious child, going about under those 


127 


FACE TO FAQE. 

trees ; or, a thoughtful, pensive girl, sitting under them 
with her book. 

The sun had just set. He turned to look at the 
clouds that kindled the west, and to wonder where, 
beyond them, she was, — his love. 

Somehow the thought of her death had never much 
dwelt with him. He had never lingered morbidly over 
her possible sufferings. By flood or flame the agony had 
been short, doubtless ; and he knew her well enough to 
believe the release had been welcome. He had loved, 
instead, to think of her as gone home, — translated into 
the sure refuge of God’s peace, — her little one again 
in her arms, perhaps, as she sat among the heavenly 
gardens, where the very flowers of Eden made sweet 
the celestial air. Thinking of her thus to-night, as he 
had so often done before, the vision became very real to 
him, and he was scarcely surprised to see it taking form 
before him, as he turned back again to look at the old 
house. 

Down towards the gate a shape was coming, like one 
he used to know, walking dreamily, and lifting its rapt 
face towards the sunset sky. He hardly dared to 
breathe as he drew near and watched this miracle of 
resurrection. Scarcely knowing what he did, he spoke 
at last one word, — “ Elizabeth.” 

The uplifted eyes came back to earth. The dreamy 
footsteps paused. A heavenly smile curved the lips. 
A soft blush rose to the rounded cheeks. Do ghosts 
then blush and smile? He went forward, trembling 
with strange ecstasy, and they were face to face. 


128 


SOME WOMEN-'S HEARTS, 


Pie touched the extended hand. The soil and slender 
fingers which trembled in his own were flesh and blood 
surely. The red lips, ‘‘ dear and dewy,” the eyes shy 
and sweet, — this was no ghost, no vision. 

“ I thought you were dead,” he said. 

“And I thought I should never see you again tiU we 
were both immortal,” she answered. 

Then there was a silence, which John Erskine broke 
at last ; though his voice was hoarse with some secret 
struggle, as he asked, — “ W ere you both saved, — you 
and he?” 

“ He was taken and I was left,” she said, slowly. 
“God knows why. My husband saved my life. He 
lowered me into the boat, and lost his own chance. We 
had both been wrong in our lives; but he was noble in 
his death.” 

“ And you have been free all this time, — alive and 
free? Why did you never let me know? Did you 
never once think that your life belonged to me now?” 

“I dared not think so. You know what I believed. 
I thought my darling was taken from my arms because 
I sinned, in those days, in caring for you too much ; and 
it seemed to me God would be best pleased by my liv- 
ing out my life alone.” 

“ And you meant to offer Him your own sad, solitary 
future, and mine, as a sacrifice of expiation ? Oh, Eliz- 
abeth!” 

“ I meant only to offer Him mine. I thought you 
would be happy with some one else.” 

John Erskine’s face kindled with a grand light. 


FACE TO FACE, 


129 


‘‘ Child,” he said, ‘‘ I should have waited for you, — 
no matter through how many lives or worlds, — sure 
through them all that you would be mine at the 
last.” 

Then, for a moment more, he looked at her, in all 
her shadowy loveliness, and after that look some gust 
of emotion swayed him from his calm. His words were 
strong with a passion whose power startled her. 

“ Did you forget that our Father in Heaven pities 
us, as a Father pities his children? He wants to 
see us happy, believe it. You are mine, — my wife. 
Flame and flood spared you, because you were for me 
Do you think I will give you up now ? ” 

He took her into his arms, shy and startled, trembling 
like a girl of sixteen before her lover. Her very agita- 
tion calmed him, and he let her go before he had even 
kissed her lips. 

‘‘You shall come to me of your own free will, or not 
at all,” he said, gently. “ I called you mine, — are you 
mine, Elizabeth?” 

Through the dusk which had gathered round them, 
she felt rather than saw his ardent, longing look. The 
moon, a pale crescent, was already high in the heavens, 
and one star glittered beside it. A late bird, going 
home, dropped a note full of hope and joy into the 
heart of the fragrant, dewy night. Half unconsciously 
she noted moon, and star, and bird-song, and the tender 
fragrance of the summer dusk. Had every thing be- 
lieved and rejoiced in the Father’s love except her 
heart, — and now had her hour come ? Was her life at 
6 * 


1 


130 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS, 


its flood-tide ? She went through the shadows to Dr. 
Erskine, close into the arms that once more shut her 
in, — not passionately now, but gently, thankfully, 
with a clasp that claimed, and accepted, and would 
never again let her go. 


B E A I N S. 


A I turned with a start. I was quite alone, as 1 
thought, and the fine treble of that odd little voice 
struck strangely upon my ear. I had been saying that 
I was tired of life, or some such repining speech, which 
I never allowed myself except in solitude, and this 
object at my knee answered me, “Yes’m!” I looked 
at her in amazement. She was a little morsel, scarcely 
so tall as a well-grown child of seven, but with a 
grave, mature, preternaturally wise face, which might 
have belonged to any age from fifteen to twenty-five. 
W as she goblin or mortal ? 

“ Who are you ? ” I asked. 

‘‘ My name is Susan Mory, ma’am, but they mostly 
call me ‘ Brains.’ They say I’ve an old head to be on 
such young shoulders.” And she laughed, a small, 
fine, queer laugh, as uncanny in sound as her voice. 
I was hardly yet convinced that she was human. 

“ How old are you ? ” 

‘‘ Twelve, ma’am, last birthday.” 

“ And what do you want, ‘ Brains ’ ? How came you 
here?” 

“I want to do your errands, ma’am. I heard you 


132 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


needed some one; and your door wasn’t quite shut, 
so I came in. Excuse the freedom.” And here she 
bobbed me a droll little courtesy, quite in keeping with 
her voice, and her laugh, and the quaint correctness 
and propriety of her conversation. It was true I 
wanted an errand-girl ; but what could this odd morsel 
of humanity do ? 

“ What wages did you expect ? ” I asked, more from 
curiosity to see what estimate she put upon her ser- 
vices than with any serious intention of employing her. 

“ I heard you had been paying three dollars a week, 
and the girl boarded herself. I think I could earn as 
much.” 

“ But she was a large girl,” I said, in surprise. “ She 
swept and dusted my room, carried home all my work, 
and shopped for linings and trimmings.” 

‘‘ Yes’m.” She spoke with an acquiescent air, as if 
she thought the work I had mentioned was not at all 
too much for her. She seemed so ready and cheery 
that I couldn’t bear to refuse her. / 

‘‘ Can you sweep ? ” I asked. 

“ If you’ll try me, ma’am, I think my work will please 
you. If not, you know it’s only to send me away 
again.” 

There was no room to dispute her assertion. I began 
to like the quaint, neat little creature, with her earnest, 
unchildlike face. I would question her a little more, I 
thought. 

Have you a home ? ” I asked. “ Do you live with 
your parents ? ” 


BBAINS, 


133 


“ With my mother. There are three of us, — mother, 
and I, and ‘ Body,’ — I mean my sister Jane ; she grew 
so fast, and was so careless and thoughtless, that 
father always used to call her ‘ Body,’ and me ‘ Brains.’ 
When the war broke out he went for a private soldier, 
but he was shot the second summer. We have eight 
dollars a month, you know, — mother’s pension, — 
but that won’t quite make us comfortable, and mother’s 
delicate ; and so I thought if I could do your errands, 
ma’am.” 

So she, too, had lost by the war, — she in one way 
and I in another. The thought made my heart warm 
to her yet more. 

“You may come to-morrow morning,” I said. “ Come 
at half-past six, and ask the porter for the key of 
No. 10. You will find a broom in that closet behind 
the door, and you can get the room swept and dusted 
before the girls come to work.” 

“ Yes’m.” 

Another droll little courtesy, and she was gone. 

Then I went back to my thoughts again. They were a 
little less melancholy and self-compassionate, however, 
for the diversion. Yet I had lost so much. Before the 
war began my father had been one of the wealthy 
merchants of New York. He did a large wholesale 
business, mostly with the South, and when the crisis 
came it ruined him utterly. In the summer of 1861 
we went to a little place in the country which belonged 
to my mother, and there he died. I think it was his 
trouble which brought on the long, slow fever fi-om 


134 


SOME WOMEN’^S HEARTS. 


which he never rallied. Then, in that fall after 
his death, I had to decide upon my future. We had 
scarcely a hundred dollars in the world besides the 
little place which sheltered us, but which insured us 
only a roof over our heads. My mother was a delicate 
woman, accustomed ever since her marriage to be 
petted and waited on and tended. She was utterly 
broken down by her grief at the loss of my father. I 
must think for both and work for both. 

I, too, had been accustomed to luxury, and never 
trained to any thing useful. I had received a fine-lady 
sort of education. I could play and sing, — with taste 
rather than with science. I danced well ; I drew a 
little ; I read French ; I could manage Italian enough 
for a song ; but what one thing did I know well enough 
to teach it ? Not one. And even if I had, there were 
fifty applicants for every vacant situation in the depart- 
ment of instruction. Clearly I must do something 
besides teaching. I could not sew fast enough to earn 
much in that way. What was I good for ? My self- 
esteem went rapidly down to zero, when suddenly a 
new idea took possession of me. I had one endowment 
which I might make available as capital, — taste in 
dress. I use the words in their highest sense. I not 
only knew what was pretty when I saw it, — I knew 
what would be pretty before I saw it. I had original 
ideas. In the days when I had been a leader of fashion 
in my own set, my dresses and my trimmings had 
never been servile imitations of French models. I had 
always invented something for myself, often for my 


BBAINS, 


135 


friends. Schneider had said that my taste would be a 
fortune to any mantua-maker. It should be a fortune, 
then, to me. 

I matured my plan and then communicated it to my 
mother. As I had foreseen, it vexed her sorely at first. 
But when I set matters before her in their true light, 
and she saw it afforded our only chance of comfort and 
independence, she began to look on the idea more 
favorably. She made only one stipulation, — that I 
should not attempt to carry out my undertaking in 
New York. To this I was quite ready to accede. 
The supercilious patronage of all my former friends 
would have been a burden quite too heavy to be borne. 
I should feel more comfortable, even if I made less 
money, to begin elsewhere. My scheme was quite an 
ambitious one. I ignored the proverbs about small 
beginnings, little acorns, and so on. I meant to storm 
success at the outset. I let the house which we were 
occupying for a year, and arranged to leave my mother 
with the new tenants until I was ready to come for her. 
Then I went to Boston. 

I found vacant rooms in a building on Summer 
Street, in which nearly all the upstairs apartments 
were used by milliners and dress-makers. I had no 
references, but I engaged to pay my rent monthly in 
advance ; and having paid the first month I arranged 
my rooms, and put my sign — “Miss Macgeegor” — 
on my door, and downstairs at the lower entrance. I 
had hired a dress-maker to go on with me from New 
York, — one who had been in the habit of going out by 


136 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


the day, and had often sewed for me on common 
dresses. She could fit exceedingly well, but she would 
have been utterly wanting in the comprehensive ability 
necessary to carry on a business, and she made no pre- 
tensions to taste about trimming. She was quite ‘satis- 
fied to be hands, and let me be head, and would be 
contented with her weekly wages. In one of my 
rooms was a wardrobe bedstead which she and I were 
to occupy together till I could send for my mother. 
These arrangements made, 1 sent to the Transcript 
an advertisement setting forth the claims to patron- 
age of Miss Macgregor from New York. 

The evening the notice appeared I sat with it alone 
in my own room, — where, until it was time to retire. 
Miss Granger never intruded. The die was cast, and 
now I must go forward. For the first time a sort of 
passionate regret, a wild misgiving, took possession 
of me, and I cried bitterly. It seemed to me I had 
given up every thing I valued in life. If my social 
position, my New York acquaintances, had been all, I 
could have borne it without complaining; but I had 
resigned much more. Two years before I had expe- 
rienced a new phase of emotion. Not to be romantic, 
or put too fine a point upon the matter, I had fallen 
heartily, and, I thought then, irrevocably, in love. I 
f^lt sure, too, that Horace Weir had loved me. There 
had been no engagement between us, but when he 
went away in the spring of 1860 to study for three 
years in the hospitals of Paris, — he was to be a 
physician, — I think we had both felt sure of each 


BRAINS. 


137 


other’s hearts, and looked forward to a future together 
almost as confidently as if we had been betrothed. 

I felt that in giving up all my old associations and 
entering upon this new life I was giving him up also. 
If we had been engaged, I had faith enough in him to 
feel sure that he would have been changed by no 
change of fortune. But, as it was, I had not the 
shadow of a claim on him. We had never corre- 
sponded, and when he came back he would not kno"w 
where to find me. I should drop out of his life. 
I will confess that I sufiered keenly at this prospect. 
I would have clung to him if I could. For his sake I 
would have clung, if I could, to position and old asso- 
ciations. But the simple fact was that I could not. If 
I had been willing to starve genteelly myself, I was 
not willing that my mother should ; and there was no 
resource but to go to work. Just then I took up a 
Bible lying near me, with some vague idea of finding 
in it comfort or direction, and, curiously enough, my 
eyes fell upon this passage : — 

“And the Lord said unto Moses, Speak unto the 
children of Israel that they go forward.” 

I was just in the state of mind to receive these words 
as a special direction, — a sort of omen. I took them 
as meant for an indication that I had chosen the right 
path and must walk on in it. So I tried to be brave, 
— to cease to think of Horace Weir, — to suppress 
every repining thought, every longing for the old days 
of ease and luxury, and to content myself with the 
present. I trusted that I should succeed. I felt sure 


138 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS 


I should, if I could but once make a beginning. I 
would let the old life go, and commence this new one 
bravely. I had used on my sign my middle name, 
Macgregor only. I trusted that if any old friends ever 
chanced to read my advertisement they would not 
associate Miss Macgregor, dress-maker, with Helen 
Macgregor Bryce, their friend of the old time. Per- 
haps this was a weakness ; at any rate it harmed no 
6ne, and Macgregor was a more imposing name than 
Bryce would have been. To he imposing, to be ele- 
gant, to become the fashion, was my only hope. I 
had sold two diamond rings of considerable value for 
money enough to start me fairly ; but if, in the two 
months to come, I could not secure a paying run of 
custom, I should have lost my last chance. 

The very next morning a magnificent-looking dame 
walked into my room, stately after the manner of 
Boston, with a certain severe majesty appropriate to 
the hub of the universe. She was followed by two 
pretty young ladies. I had made a distinguished toilet 
that morning, and for stateliness it would go hard if I 
could not match her. She bowed loftily. I bowed 
loftily in response, and offered chairs. 

“ Miss Macgregor, I suppose.” 

Bow the second on my part. 

“ 1 saw your advertisement last evening, and came to 
talk with you about some dresses. Lubec has disap- 
pointed me so many times, that if I could find some 
one equally good who would be punctual, it would be a 
satisfaction to make a change.” 


BBAINS, 


139 


Bow the third. 

“ Are you very busy, Miss Macgregor?” 

“ Not at all so. To-day is the first day I have been 
open, and you are my first caller.” 

Then followed a whispered consultation of the 
mamma with the tallest young lady. I knew they 
weie debating whether it would be safe to trust a 
stranger whose work they had never seen, whose first 
patrons they were. I waited in apparent unconcern, 
watching the customers go in and out of the store 
opposite. 

‘‘ You are sure,” the lady began, again turning back 
to me, “ that you would have no difiSculty in fitting us 
for the first time ? ” 

“I apprehend none, madam.” 

“ And for trimmings, — what fashion-books do you 
use ? ” 

“None. I have them all, but I invent my own 
styles for the most part.” ' 

Upon that the youngest daughter spoke in a pleasant, 
lady-like voice, — 

“ That will be nice, mamma. W e shall not be copies 
of every one else.” 

“ It would be better,” the elder lady remarked, “ if 
we could try some more common dresses first, but 
there seems to be no time. Could you get two light 
silks done for a wedding reception day after to-moi- 
row?” 

“ Certainly, since, as I said, you have the fortune to 
come first.” 


140 


SOME WOMEN-^S HEARTS, 


“ Then will you fit my daughters this morning ? ” 

“ At once.” 

I led the way into the other room, where Miss 
Granger sat waiting. 

White linen linings, Miss Granger,” I said, with 
an air of command ; “ and please pin them on imme- 
diately.” 

Madam started at this with a gesture of alarm. 

“Do you not fit them on yourself?” she asked. 
“ Even Lubec always did that.” 

“ By no means. There is no surer way to spoil one’s 
power of adapting a dress to the figure. I stand at a 
little distance, and see that an artistic effect is pre- 
served.” 

By this time Miss Granger was pinning on the lining 
over the slight girlish form of the elder daughter. She 
could fit well, and they must have perceived it. I 
gave a few hints and directions, and the work was 
accomplished. 

“ Will you leave the trimming entirely to me ? ” I 
asked, as the mamma shook the lustrous, pearl-colored 
silk out of its folds, “ or have you a choice ? ” 

“Leave it to her,” I heard the younger daughter 
whisper, — “I know by her own looks she has good 
taste.” 

So it was settled that I should make the dresses as I 
chose. "No sooner had they left than I began my task. 
I had only two seamstresses engaged besides Miss 
Granger ; but we all worked. A few other customers 
came in, and I put them off until these two dresses 


BRAINS. 


141 


should be finished. When done, they were to be sent 
to Mrs. John Sturgis, Beacon Street ; and I felt that if 
they gave satisfaction I should have made as good a 
beginning as I desired. I trimmed them so differently 
that, though the silk was the same, the dresses were 
totally unlike, and yet equal in elegance. I sent them 
home the aftemoon before the reception, and Miss 
Granger was kind enough to go with them and try 
them on, though that was not at all in her province. 
She came back and reported elegant fits and perfect 
satisfaction. 

The next morning Mrs. Sturgis came for my bill. 
It was a matter on which I had bestowed some 
thought. I had questioned whether it would be the 
best policy to conciliate custom by the moderation of 
my charges, or to convey a sense of my own impor- 
tance by their extravagance. One of my girls had 
formerly worked for Madame Lubec, who had stood at 
the head hitherto of Boston fashion. After a consulta- 
tion with her, I had made out my bill, charging perhaps 
two or three dollars on a dress more than Lubec would 
have done. 

Mrs. Sturgis ran over the items. 

“ You are a little higher in your rates than is cus- 
tomary here,” she said ; “ but I suppose we must be 
willing to pay something for your taste. My daughters’ 
dresses were the loveliest in the room. Can you make 
them some more next week? They want some walk- 
ing-dresses, and I a dinner-dress.” 

Not next week, I am soj:ry to say. I am more busy 


142 


SOME WOMEN'^S EEABTS, 


than when you came first. I think I might promise for 
the week after next.” 

I had decidedly made a hit. After that customers 
came fast enough ; and a good many of them spoke of 
the dresses Aggie Sturgis and her sister had worn at the 
wedding. I was able, in two months from that begin- 
ning, to bring on my mother, and to take for her a 
third room, — a small one which happened about that 
time to fall vacant, — so that she could be as retired as 
she wished. I completed this arrangement early in the 
winter of 1861, and for the two years between that 
time and the first appearance of little “ Brains ” in my 
establishment, I had been prospering beyond my hopes. 
But I was not happy. Success brought, indeed, a cer- 
tain kind of satisfaction ; but I missed sorely the care- 
free life of the old days, the liberty to follow my own 
tastes and ways, and I did miss Horace Weir. I 
had heard of him incidentally. He had come home 
from France, and was now practising his profession in 
New York. I would have given much to know 
whether he had thought of me, inquired after me, tried 
to trace me out. Vain enough it must have been if he 
had. I had given no clue to my present residence to a 
single old friend. Every one of them, to the best of 
my belief, had lost sight of me. I was wedded to a life 
very different from any of my early dreams. I had been 
successful, it is true, beyond my expectations. I was 
saving money. I could make my mother comfortable. 

I had little to do with the laborious details of my 
business. My task was to invent graceful fashions, — 


BRAINS. 


143 


to suit colors to fair faces, — to make charming toilets 
for girls living just such lives as I used to live once. 
God forgive me if sometimes I almost hated them, — 
if now and then a mad rebellious impulse seized me, 
and I cursed fate in my heart, forgetting that fate was 
but another name for Providence. 

I had been in one of these murmuring moods when 
little Susan Mory interrupted my meditations with her 
fine, small voice. After she went away I relapsed into 
At only partially, and roused myself with determination 
at last, and went to my mother, to amuse her with an 
account of my droll little visitor. After all, mother had 
much more to bear than I. She had not even the di- 
version of business. She must sit through the long, 
slow days, remembering the past and all its good gifts 
and false promises, — stung by its contrast with* the 
empty-handed present. How much more she had lost, 
too. What was the sentimental regret of a young girl 
over a love that had never even been declared, to a wife’s 
sorrow and longing for the household tenderness which 
had been hers for a quarter of a century ? As I opened 
her door I reproached myself for all my repinings. 

I was glad to perceive that she was really interested 
about “Brains.” She wanted to see her on the mor- 
row, and began planning about garments we could give 
her to make over for herself and her sister. 

The next morning, curious to see whether my small 
handmaiden had arrived, I put on my dressing-gown a 
little before seven, and looked into the work-room. I 
opened the door so quietly that she did not hear it. 


144 


SOME WOMEN^S HEABTS. 


She had swept the room carefully, and now she stood 
in a chair dusting the window frames. It was very 
amusing to see her grave, womanly patience and care, 
and her queer expedients to accomplish the tasks for 
which she was too absurdly short. As she turned round 
I said, — 

“ Good-morning, ‘ Brains.’ ” 

She dropped instantly from her chair, and made me 
her droll little courtesy. 

“ Yes’m,” she said, cheerfully, “I’m come. I’ve been 
trying to make it as clean here as usual.” And she 
glanced at me interrogatively with her bright, thought- 
ful eyes, that looked so large and wistful in her queer, 
little, old-young face. 

“ Yes,” I said, “you have made it very nice ; I think 
you will please me.” 

When her morning work was done I took her in to 
see my mother, and her verdict was decidedly in the 
little one’s favor. “ She’ll be the best errand-girl you 
ever had,” she said to me after “ Brains ” had gone back 
to the work-room. 

Time went on, and proved her right. Through all 
the winter she was the most faithful of little maidens. 
Never did pieces go astray, ot bundles fail to reach their 
destinations ; and she developed a remarkable capacity 
for matching dresses with buttons and braid, and simi- 
lar trifles. I grew really attached to her, and would 
not have exchanged her for any other messenger of 
twice her years. 

Early in March she took a severe cold, and began lo 


BRAINS. 


145 


cough. I tried to make her stay at home until she was 
better, and let some one else take her place ; but she 
in^sted on coming. She knew just my ways, she said, 
and she was sure it didn’t hurt her. She was going to 
get better of her cold as soon as there were some warm 
days. Still I was not just comfortable about her. I 
did not like the sound of that constant cough, — the 
color on her cheeks was too bright, — she was growing, 
too, into such a mere little shadow. 

One morning when I entered the work-room I missed 
her. Some one else had been sweeping and putting 
away things, but it was not in the accustomed order. 

“ ‘ Brains ’ didn’t come. I’m afraid she’s worse,” Miss 
Granger said. They had all fallen into the habit of 
calling her Brains,” — the name seemed so appropriate, 
— there was so much thought, and care, and womanli- 
ness in such a little body. 

Half an hour later there was a timid knock on the 
door, and in came a girl whom I had never seen before. 
I recognized her at once for the ten-years-old sister of 
my little errand-girl, — recognized her, as one often 
does, by some mysterious family likeness, which seemed 
to vanish when I looked at her more steadily. This 
one was a real, actual child, — large of her age, with 
full, rosy cheeks, and eyes round as beads. She came 
straight up to me, and delivered her message with the 
air of one who had been taught it carefully. 

“ Sister Susy is sick, and can’t come. She is sorry, 
and hopes it won’t put you to much inconvenience.” 

7 j 


146 


SOME WOMEN ^S HEARTS. 


It was just like “Brains,” — the polite, careful mes- 
sage. 

“ And you are ‘ Body ’ ? ” I asked. 

“Yes, ma’am,” — and she looked as if she longed to 
ask how I had learned her home name, — “ Yes, ma’am ; 
I am Jane, and they call me ‘ Body.’ ” 

“ Is Susy very sick ? ” 

“ Pretty bad, I guess, ma’am. She can’t sit up, and 
she coughs most all the time, and mother sent me after 
a doctor this morning.” 

I asked where they lived, and she mentioned a num- 
ber on Pleasant Street. 

“Well,” I said, “tell Susy not to worry. I shall get 
along nicely, and I will come to see her as soon as I can 
make time, — to-night, if not before.” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

She went away then. She had a lazy sort of voice, 
and spoke lingeringly, — quite unlike the quick, charac- 
teristic utterance of little “ Brains.” How well I remem- 
bered that first day, and the brisk “ Yes’m” that broke 
in upon my musings. 

It was late in the afternoon before I could make time 
to go to Pleasant Street. I found the Morys living in 
the third story of a comfortable-looking house. I went 
first into a room which seemed to serve as a kitchen 
and sitting-room. Mrs. Mory, a tired-looking woman 
who had been pretty once, was stirring somet^iing in a 
saucepan over the fire. She turned to greet me, and 
invited me to go into the next room, where Susy was. 
It was a small bedroom, but every thing was neat and 


BRAINS. 


147 


clean. There lay poor little “ Brains,” with a bright flush 
burning on her cheeks, her eyes glittering, and her poor 
little body shaken by a paroxysm of coughing. As soon 
as she could speak she put out her hand. 

“ Thank you. Miss Macgregor ; it was very kind of 
you to come. I didn’t mean to give up this way, and 
disappoint you. And I suppose you will have to get 
some one else. I thought first that perhaps ‘ Body’ could 
do my work for a week or two, until I got better ; but 
I don’t suppose she’d answer.” 

“No, I fear she wouldn’t; and besides, while you are 
ill, your mother will need her at home. But I’ll keep 
the place for you. I shall have to get some one else, to 
be sure, but I’ll get them with the understanding that 
you are to come back just as soon as you are able, and 
they must be ready to give up to you at any time.” 

“ Oh, how good, how good you are ! ” the poor little 
morsel cried, with kindling eyes. “ I was so afraid I 
should lose my place that it was worse than the sick- 
ness.” 

Her gratitude touched me profoundly, for it seemed 
to me, even then, that she would never get any better ; 
and it was so hard to think of that poor little patient 
life going out so early, quenched in its dawn. 

It brought on her cough to talk, so I did not stay 
with her long. On the w^y out I said to her 
mother, — 

“ Do not be troubled by any fear of want. I shall 
pay Susy her wages just the same as if she were well. 
I can well afibrd it, for I am prospering in my business, 


148 


SOME WOMEN '^S HEARTS. 


and if she wants any thing that you cannot get her, 
you must let me know.” 

As I went out of the house I caught a faint red glow 
of the March sunset, shooting up high enough to show 
a glimpse of its splendor even to the dwellers in brick 
walls. W ould little “ Brains ” see many more days de- 
cline? I longed to take her away into the country, 
and give her, before she died, one glimpse of wide- 
stretching fields, of sunsets, and sunrisings. But it was 
too late. She was not well enough to be moved, and 
if she should never get any better she would see a light 
before long such as no sun ever kindled, breathe airs of 
healing, smell flowers that grow not on any earthly soil. 
Her “ country ” would be brighter than any of her 
dreams, — the land that lies “ very far oflT.” 

The next day I went to see her again. I had not 
thought of going so soon, but a spell seemed to draw 
me. It was reward enough to see her poor little face 
brighten, and her eyes grow eager with welcome when 
I went in. But she was no better. She never would 
be, I thought. I asked her mother what the doctor 
said, and she answered me, with a burst of sobbing, — 

“ I don’t think he has much hope of her. He says 
her lungs are very much inflamed. He thinks it might 
have been better if she had staid at home when she first 
got her cold, but I couldn’t keep her. She was such 
an ambitious child. Oh, ma’am, if God takes her, how 
shall I bear it? Since her fhther left me, little as she 
is, she’s been what I depended on.” 

I could well understand it. The girl had one of 


BRAINS. 


149 


those natures on which weaker ones rest instinctively. 
She was thoroughly reliable, with a courage, a patient 
liope, a quiet strength, utterly out of proportion to her 
tiny frame. I could not say any thing to console her 
poor mother, for I knew too well w’hat she was losing, 
and it seems so idle to talk about heavenly consolations 
to ears deaf with misery. The soul is so seldom ready 
to accept them until after the blow has fallen, and God 
himself speaks to the stricken one through the darkness 
of desolation. I could only say, — 

“We need not quite give up hope yet, and we ought 
to think of her now, — of making her as comfortable as 
we can.” 

Then I went out again into the March twilight. 

Every night after that found me at Pleasant Street, 
I could not stay away. Besides all my interest in her, 
an unaccountable impression took possession of me that 
she was in some wise associated with my own fate. I 
was going, so it seemed to me, straight toward my des- 
tiny, — a destiny in some dim, undreamed-of way con- 
nected with “ Brains ” and her little room. 

I have said that from the first I had not much hope 
of her. My hope lessened every day. She would 
never come back to the place I had engaged another to 
fill till she got well. I should never watch again her 
tidy little ways, or be amused at her quaint womanli- 
ness. I had not thought it was in me to care for her 
so much, but my heart grew heavy as I saw her fading 
away. She suffered terribly with her racking cough, and 
the constant wearing ^ pain in her side and chest; but 


150 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


she did not lose her bright cheerfulness. For a long 
time, too, she continued to make light of her illness 
and tell me that in a little while she should be back 
doing my errands as of old. 

The first time she said any thing else was one April 
night. I went to her a little later than usual, and 
found the doctor with her. I had never seen him 
before, this Dr. John Sargent. His name seemed some- 
how strangely familiar, though I could not recall at 
the moment where I had heard it. He was bending 
over poor little “ Brains ” when I went in, but he raised 
his head and met my eyes with his own, so kind, so 
pitiful, so serious, that I felt drawn toward him at 
once. The child put out her hand. 

“ You’ll have to keep her. Miss Macgregor,” she said, 
with a sad smile. 

I did not think at first who she meant, and I asked 
her. 

“ The girl that took my place, you know. I’ve been 
asking Dr. Sargent, and he doesn’t think Til ever be 
able to go back any more.” 

She was so calm that for very shame I tried to be 
calm also, but the tears would come, and I went out 
into the next room without speaking. Soon Dr. Sar- 
gent joined me. 

“ It is very sad,” he said. “ I have seldom been so 
much interested in a case. Such a bright, patient little 
thing as she is, and so wonderfully womanly She 
asked me herself, to-night, if there was any hope, and 
I had to tell her. You see how she bears it.” 


BBAINS. 


151 


After he had gone I went back to little Susy. I had 
brought her a bunch of violets, which I saw in a shop- 
window as I came along, and her very pleasure in 
them made my heart ache. How she loved all beautiful 
things. How much she was capable of enjoying, and 
how little she had had to enjoy in this world, poor 
child. And now she was going. 

I think she guessed my thought, for she touched my 
hand with a timid, caressing motion, and said, very 
softly, — 

“ There will be brighter flowers there. Miss Mac- 
gregor. ‘ It hath not entered into the heart of man to 
conceive,’ you know. It is well for me ; only it will be 
so hard for mother and Jane. But their Father will 
take care of them. You know what it says about the 
widow and the fatherless.” 

How unconsciously she reproved my lack of faith. 
I bent over her, and pressed my lips to the little cheek 
where the hectic burned. How many times I had 
doubted God, and what faith she had. She seemed to 
infuse into my soul new strength. As I went through 
the other room to go home I found Mrs. Mory crying 
very softly, so as not to disturb her sick child, in a 
quiet, dreary way, inexpressibly pitiful. Poor “ Body ” 
was kneeling with her face buried in her mother’s lap, 
fairly shaken by the violence of her suppressed sobbing. 
I only said, as I went by, — 

“ Don’t grieve her by weeping. She has been 
telling me that God will take care of you.” 

When I reached home I sat down and tried to think 


152 


SOME WOMEN^S EEAETS. 


what I had known before about Dr. Sargent. It carried 
me back to Horace Weir. John Sargent was his 
friend, I remembered, — a classmate, and the Jicliis 
Achates of his early manhood. Did they occupy such 
a relation still, I wondered. Would I be mentioned 
between them? But no. Dr. Sargent knew of me 
only as Miss Macgregor, the fashionable dress-maker 
for whom little Brains ” had worked. He would never 
associate me with Helen Bryce, even if Weir had once 
made that name familiar to him. What was there 
to arouse such tumult of hope and memory in my 
heart ? I remembered little Susy, and the world where 
she was going, and tried to grow calm. 

For a fortnight after that she failed fast. Of course I 
went to see her every day, and it carried me strangely 
near to the eternal world whither her footsteps tended. 
You cannot think what a change it seemed to come 
back to the thoroughly earthly atmosphere of my 
fashionable establishment, — to see the bright-hued 
silks, and laces white and dainty as hoar-frost, — to 
hear the perpetual talk about w^hat was stylish and 
what was becoming, and be complimented about my 
invention, my charming taste. It was like turning 
back to earth from the gate of Heaven. 

At length there canae a day — it was toward the 
last of April — when I went earlier than usual to see 
little “ Brains.” She had been so weak the day before 
that I felt anxious. I carried her the first May flowers 
I had seen. The little creature had a sort of passionate 
fondness for flowers not unusual in such an organiza- 


BRAINS. 


153 


tion. She loved and cherished them as if they were 
of her own kindred. 

When I went in I saw Dr. Sargent was in the room, 
and with him, his back toward the door, another gentle- 
man. The doctor heard my footsteps, and came out. 

“A friend of mine is there,” he said; “Dr. Weir, 
from New York. He came on to visit me, and I 
brought him to see the child. There is no hope, of 
course ; but he might think of something to relieve her 
that I did not.” 

I felt my face turning crimson under his searching 
glance. But neither he nor I made any comment. As 
soon as I felt sufficiently mistress of myself I went 
into the room. Calmness stole like balm over my 
spirit as I crossed its threshold. I felt as if I were in 
the presence of waiting angels. I met Horace Weir’s 
eyes, but I scarcely knew it as I went up to Susy, and 
saw the strange, seraphic light which made her little 
wan face seem as the face of an angel. I gave her the 
flowers, and she took them and my hand together into 
her clinging hold. 

“ Dear, kind Miss Macgregor,” she said, fondly ; “ you 
won’t have to bring me any more flowers. I am going 
where they blow all the time. What should I have 
done without you ? How thankful I am that I went to 
your shop.” 

“ But if you hadn’t come there, perhaps you would 
ha^e lived,” I said, as well as I could for the sobs which 
we/e choking me. She thought a moment, then she 
sb ok her head. 

7 * 


154 


SOME WOMEN'' S HEARTS. 


“No, I should not have outlived God’s time; and 
you have made me so much happier. If I can pray for 
any thing after I die, I shall ask Him^ when I get to 
His feet, to bless you for evermore. Can you stay with 
me a little while ? ” 

I took off my shawl and bonnet, and sat down at her 
bedside. Dr. Sargent came up to bid her good-night. 

“ I must go now,” he said ; “ but I will come very 
early in the morning. Will you stay a while, Weir, in 
case any thing should be wanted ? ” 

“ Certainly,” answered a voice, every tone of which I 
knew well. 

Little “ Brains” looked up with such a bright smile, — 

“ How kind every one is,” she said. “ How kind 
you’ve always been, Dr. Sargent. Good-by.” 

Moved by some sudden impulse of tenderness. Dr. 
Sargent bent over and kissed the little wistful face of 
the child he had tended so long and patiently. Next 
time he sees her it will be after he too has gone over 
the river. He will not be sorry then that he “ did 
it unto one of the least of these,” Christ’s little ones. 

Weir sat down in the outer room. I stayed by Susy. 
Her mother came in and out restlessly, with white face, 
and eyes full of anguish and longing. “ Body ” had cried 
herself into a state of exhaustion, and she sat on the 
floor, her head in a chair, sleeping heavily. Shall I 
ever forget the glimpse I had that night into the heart 
of that dying child ? Holding that little hand, looking 
into those eyes so full of meaning, and so soon to close 
for ever, 1 drew nearer than I ever had before to the 


BBAINS. 


155 


mysteries of death and of life. It was midnight, I 
think, when a sudden light illumined all her face, and, 
as if in answer to a call we did not hear, she said, — 

“ I am ready.” 

Her mother clung to her in a passion of tears and 
prayers. Her sister, wide awake now, was sobbing at 
her side. She kissed them both fondly. 

‘‘ God loves you,” she said. 

Then she looked at me with wistful eyes. I bent 
down and kissed her, my tears falling fast on her white 
face. 

“ God loves you, too,” she said ; and then a moment 
after, she spoke again, as if that voice we could not 
hear were once more calling, — 
ready.” 

Then she turned her face, with that last smile on it, 
to the wall, and went home. 

An hour afterward she lay, as we had robed her, in 
white garments, with shut eyes, and a look so calm and 
sweet upon her face you would have thought her sleep- 
ing. I had to go then. I knew my mother was 
waiting for me anxiously. 

“ May God comfort you,” I said, going up to Mrs. 
Mory to bid her good-night. She did not turn her 
eyes away from the dead face on the pillows. 

‘‘Yes,” she answered dreamily, she said God loved 
us.” 

As I went down the stairs Weir followed me. When 
we were in the street he drew my hand through his 
arm, and spoke to me for the first time. 


156 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS, 


“Helen, that dead child has given us to each other. 
But for her should I ever have found you ? Sargent 
knew how vain all my inquiries for you, since I came 
back, had been. He had seen a photograph of you 
which I carried — perhaps you have forgotten it — 
across the sea with me. He felt pretty sure that he 
recognized you from it the first time he saw you ; and 
he knew, besides, that Macgregor was your middle 
name. So last week he wrote to me, and 1 came on to 
find you out.” 

We buried poor little “Brains,” two days after that, 
in the cemetery at Forest Hills, under the shadow of a 
great rock. You will see her tombstone if you go 
there, — a little white cross, on which there is no word 
save “ Susy.” 

We left her there on the last day of April, under a 
sunshine bright as June. We put white flowers round 
the little white face, and into the hands that would 
never be tired any more. And on the sod piled above 
her grave we left sweet blossoms to lie there and give 
forth their sweetness, and then die as she had died. 

It was not long after that before I gave up my 
business to a successor and married Dr. Weir. We 
have enjoyed since then a happiness that sometimes 
seems to me too blessed to last. But we try to sanctify 
it by making ourselves ministers of God’s bounty to 
His children. What we do for Mrs. Mory and Jane is 
no charity, for we consider them a bequest from lit- 
tle “Brains,” at whose bedside we found each other 


anew. 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE. 


“ We all are changed. God judges for us best. 

God help us do our duty, and not shrink, 

And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest.^* 

T SAT alone in the room whence my mother, my sole 
remaining earthly friend, had been that day borne 
forth to her burial. It was a large, comfortable apart- 
ment, up two flights of stairs, in a New York boarding- 
house. The bed was shut up in a wardrobe; a few 
engravings which we had brought there with us hung 
upon the wall ; a canary in the window sang all day to a 
red rose and a white rose blooming below him; in the 
centre of the room was a table flanked by two easy- 
chairs, in one of which I was listlessly swaying to and 
fro, — in the other she had been wont to sit; but alas, 
she could never sit there again, save in the fancy, by 
means of which I seemed to see her slight, wasted 
figure, her pure, patient face, in the accustomed seat. 

A bright fire burned in the grate, and, lit up by its 
glow, the room looked quite like a parlor. I had con- 
gratulated myself on this six months before when I 
engaged it, and rejoiced that it would not seem to my 
mother entirely devoid of the comforts to which she 
•had been accustomed in her old home. She was gone 


158 


SOME WOMEN''S HEARTS. 


now, and I sat there alone, a homeless, friendless, I had 
almost said hopeless orphan, not quite eighteen. 

Outside it was a wild October night. The rain fell 
heavily, and upon the long, lamenting blast seemed 
borne the wail of lonesome spirits, seeking rest and 
finding none. I shuddered as I heard the rain-drops 
plash upon the pavement, for only the cold sod was 
between her and the pitiless storm. Does not every 
one who has lost dear friends feel it harder to leave 
them under a relentless sky, a sobbing blast, a driving 
rain, than if moon-beam and star-beam shone on the 
new-made grave like the visible promise of a Father’s 
love? 

It would have been a luxury to abandon myself to 
my sorrow ; to walk, in thought, through the beloved 
and memory-haunted past, and gather up every word 
that had fallen, like scattered pearls unheeded at the 
time, from the dear lips which Death had frozen into 
eternal silence. But even in that hour which should 
have been consecrated to love and sorrow, the Future 
confronted me. Stern and unsparing she looked into 
my eyes and bade me talk with her. “Wait a little, 
only a little,” I cried out, trembling before her; but 
the storm was not more pitiless than she. 

In March, after a long illness, my father had died. 
He left us poor. He had been a literary man, diligent, 
studious, and illy paid. Perhaps the delicacy of his 
fancies, the subtlety of his thoughts, failed to appeal to 
the comprehension of those on whom he depended for 
his fortune. We, at least, — his wife and his daughter^ , 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE, 


159 


— believed his writings above the times and the market; 
but we may have been too partial judges. At all events, 
the pecuniary rewards of his efforts were never abun- 
dant, and we were in no danger of being led into temp- 
tation by superfluity of riches. 

He had the refined and exacting tastes peculiar to 
such sensitive organizations, and we lived, though en- 
tirely aloof from society and the world, much more 
expensively than the bare law of necessity demanded. 
His last hours were saddened by the knowledge that he 
was leaving us lonely and destitute ; but he did not feel 
this so keenly as it would have been his nature to feel 
it, because God, who tempers the wind to the shorn 
lamb, mercifully sent upon him that sort of lethargy, 
that prostration of the reasoning faculties, which so 
often follows their too constant and severe exercise. 
Sometimes a terrible dread of the future for us two 
helpless women would rack his heart, but, as a whole, 
he possessed the most thorough and childlike faith in 
the Almighty and Eternal Father which I have ever 
seen. His very last words, as he held our hands in his, 
and sought our faces with his loving, longing eyes, 
were, — 

“ The widow’s God, — a Father to the fatherless, — 
the Bible says so. Trust, my darlings, trust.” 

And he lapsed into death peacefully, as one might 
drowse away into sleep, with a smile upon his lips born 
of that serene trust in God. It was there still when 
we buried him, — we shall know him by it in the resur- 
rection. 


160 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS, 


It is not needful that I should say how we^ two — 
wife and daughter — had worshipped him ; how we had 
reverenced his genius, found rest in his strong heart, 
and loved back his love. When we had left him in the 
village church-yard and returned to our desolate home, 
we felt that for us the sun of life had set for ever. 
Stars might indeed arise and make our night holy ; but 
no matter how bright the stars shine, when the sun is 
gone neither bird nor blossom has ever forgot that it 
was night still, or been deluded into song or bloom. 

Perhaps it was well that the stern necessities of life 
were upon us. The inevitable fact that we must do 
something gave tone and stimulus to our lives. By the 
expenses of my father’s illness and burial, and the 
mourning habiliments which we had purchased, our 
little hoard in the bank was more than half exhausted. 
There remained to us now not quite three hundred dol- 
lars, besides the small sum likely to accrue from the sale 
of our simple household furniture. The lease of the 
cottage which we occupied would expire on the first of 
April, and in the two weeks intervening we must settle 
upon some plan for the future. 

It seemed to me that my mother could never endure 
to remain in Woodstock. To keep house where we 
had been living was simply impossible. We had no 
means of paying the rent ; besides, we could no longer 
afford a servant, and neither of us had ever been used 
to household labor. As for boarding there, I could see 
no way of obtaining any employment for our support ; 
and even if I could, I thought it would kill my mother 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE, 


161 


to live on where he had died, — where they had passed 
so many happy years. In this extremity my thoughts 
turned to New York. We had occasionally passed a 
winter there with my father, and I knew more about it 
than about any other city. It seemed probable that 
there would be something in that vast industrial hive 
which my hands could do ; besides, — and this reason 
had great weight with me, — I should there be able to 
procure for my mother the best of medical advice. I had 
already begun to see in her the same symptoms which 
heralded my father’s decay ; and a terrible fear haunted 
me, which I strove in vain to banish, that she had not 
watched over him so long and so lovingly without 
inhaling from his lips the breath of the Destroyer. 

So I went to New York. I engaged there the room 
I have described, and returned to Woodstock to super- 
intend the dissolution of our household, and the sale of 
our possessions. I retained the engravings which my 
father had collected from time to time, and his small 
but well-chosen library. For things like these there 
was no sale at Woodstock; besides, they were endeared 
to us by too many memories to be parted with wil- 
lingly. 

In two weeks we were domesticated in our new place 
of abode. At first the entire change, the removal from 
all early associations, seemed to do my mother good. I 
made strenuous efforts to find an occupation that I 
could pursue at home. I did not think of teaching, for 
I feared I had neither the patience nor the tact to be 
successful in that employment ; besides, I possessed no 

K 


162 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


accomplishments, technically so called. My education 
had been chiefly imparted by my father, and was not 
only desultory, but of a very unusual kind for a girl. 
I knew some Greek and a good deal of Latin, was 
thoroughly familiar with English literature, and a more 
than tolerable mathematician ; but these are not what 
most parents wish to have chiefly taught to their daugh- 
ters, and they stood me in poor stead of showier 
knowledge. 

I succeeded, after a time, in procuring some em- 
broidery to do. I worked upon it early and late, and 
managed to earn about half enough to pay our expenses. 
I soon, however, discontinued this attempt. As the 
warm weather came on, my mother began to fail rap- 
idly, and the physician whom I called to attend her 
took me aside and told me there was no hope. He said 
her constitution was thoroughly broken, — that con- 
sumption had already seized upon her, and in an organ- 
ization like hers its progress could not be slow. She 
could not live longer than till the falling of the leaves, 
perhaps not so long. In the mean time all that could 
be done was to keep her as quiet and as happy as 
possible. 

When I went again into our room she saw the trouble 
upon my face, — she, who from childhood had been able 
to read my every thought. A person older and more 
discreet than I might have evaded her inquiries, — I 
could not. I had never kept even a momentary secret 
from her. I threw myself on my knees beside her and 
sobbed out all that the doctor had said Her lips 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE, 


163 


moved. I knew she was murmuring an inaudible 
prayer. Then she bent over me and folded me in 
her arms. 

“ Oh, darling, darling, how can I be sorry that I am 
going to him ? And yet, if it were God’s pleasure, I 
would gladly stay with you, my poor, helpless girl. Do 
not weep at our Father’s will, Gertrude. It becomes 
His children to submit to it, — no, not to submit, — to 
receive it thankfully ; for we know that beyond all our 
asking or thinking He is good.” 

From that day I gave up all employment for the one 
duty of waiting on my mother. I nursed her ; I read 
to her ; I talked to her ; I guarded her from every pang 
which love could ward off. I knew we had money 
enough to last us while she would be spared to me; 
farther than that I did not think or question. 

That summer, with all its pain and sorrow, was a 
blessed one. I went down with her into the night, but 
looking up out of its darkness I caught glimpses of the 
eternal morning, fairer than any morning of earth which 
was to break for her there. From afar its glory shone 
even on me. I almost saw the waving of the heavenly 
trees, the gleam of the heavenly waters, — almost heard 
the eternal new song which the hundred and forty and 
four thousand are singing for ever before the throne of 
God. 

Late in October she left me. Was it death, or was 
it translation ? 

During the three days in which her dead body lay in 
the room which her living preseiice had consecrated I 


164 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


sat beside it in a sort of trance. 1 shed not a tear. 
I think I scarcely experienced a pang of anguish. All 
selfish sorrow was subdued by a strange feeling of 
nearness to the infinite . world, — a profound sense 
of the glory and majesty of that change which we call 
Death. 

But this state of exaltation passed entirely away 
from me, leaving me hopeless and almost helpless, 
like a child alone in a boundless desert, when I had left 
her in a grave at Greenwood and come back to the 
room where I could no longer see the glory of the 
strong angel’s presence, but only remember the dark- 
ness of the shadow of his wing. 

Now I would fain have sat down and indulged in 
the luxury of grief. But, as I said, the Future was 
stern and inexorable. She rose up and would have 
speech with me. Long enough, she said, had I forgotten 
the cares of this world. How much had I left now in 
that purse which had never been the purse of For- 
tunatus, — how much between me and starvation ? 
This last word goaded me into listening. I took out 
my purse and counted its contents. When the ex- 
penses attending my mother’s funeral had been paid I 
should have but twelve dollars in the world, and, at 
the end of the week, half that would be due to my 
landlady. What should I do ? I was slow at my 
needle, and, save in fancy work, little accustomed to use 
it. I had already tried the experiment of embroidery, 
and I knew I could not depend on it. I might teach 
young children, but then I had no means of obtaining 


•TWELVE TEARS OF MY LIFE, 


165 


siicli a situation, and my necessities were immediate. 
I took up an evening paper, and ran over the column 
of wants. I could see only one opening at all adapted 
to my needs. A well-known fancy goods dealer adver- 
tised for a saleswoman, — the salary, at first, to be five 
dollars a week. 

Of course this occupation would be most un suited to 
my preTious habits of life, and uncongenial to my 
taste, but I could not afford to be too particular. Any 
thing was better than the horrors of destitution. On 
the sum thus offered I could live, I had clothes 
enough to last me for some time. At my father’s death 
both my mother and myself had been supplied with 
mourning garments, not only plentiful, but even rich 
and handsome, — we deemed this but a suitable respect 
to his memory. In this regard, therefore, I was pro- 
vided for. The situation as saleswoman seemed, if I 
could obtain it, to promise well. I believe I scarcely 
thought of the improbability that I should succeed in 
my application, with no experience and no references. 
I satisfied myself with the resolve to make the attempt 
on the coming morning, and then I shut out of my 
thoughts all future worldly troubles, and abandoned 
myself to the present reality of my loss. 

Oh, with what homesick longing my heart cried out 
for the mother whom I had so loved. God grant 
that few who read these pages may be able to realize 
the intensity of my despair. I was alone in all the 
world. Not one human being lived to whom my life 
was precious, or to whom my death could bring sorrow. 


166 


SOME WOMEN'^S EEAETS. 


I forgot the glory of the heavenly morning, the angels, 
and the new song. I only remembered that over my 
last friend blew the unquiet winds and fell the lone- 
some rain of this wild October night, and neither God 
nor man said any ‘‘Peace, be still!” to the tempest 
of my grief. 

Brave and bright, after that night of storm, rose 
the October sun. It shone as gladly as if there had 
been no trouble in all the world. It will shine so on 
your grave and mine ; for Nature has for her lost 
children no Rachel-voice of lamentation. The brave, 
joyful morning seemed a mockery to my grief. I 
dressed myself carefully in my deep mourning gar- 
ments, and strove to look as well as I could, for the 
impression I should make was all I had to depend upon. 
The aspect which confronted me, as I tiejd on my bon- 
net before the mirror, was neither plain nor actually 
handsome. Dark and abundant hair was brushed 
away from a pale face, youthful in outline, but worn 
not a little with grief and watching. The eyes were 
like my father’s, large and dark, brown rather than 
black, — the features were regular, and the mouth, my 
mother used to say, both proud and loving. My figure 
was tall ; slender, without being thin. I had not much 
vanity, but a year ago I had cherished dearly whatever 
charms I might chance to possess for my father’s sake, 
who, like all persons of a poetical organization, placed 
a high value on loveliness of person. I remembered 
this as I stood there, and thought, with an added sense 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE. 


167 


of desolation, that no one cared for my looks now, — 1 
had no one left for whose sake I need strive to be 
pretty. 

And yet, despite my burden of sorrow, as I walked 
rapidly through the streets which led to Broadway, a 
hope or a wish stirred in my heart which was perhaps 
akin to desperation, — a longing to live in this world, 
only to live /no matter what troubles were in store for 
me : to live till I should be old, — to see my game of 
life played out, — to meet all that had been written for 
me in the book of Fate. It seemed to me then that 
I could accept joy or pain with equal fortitude, as only 
the accidents incident to being, laying them up as 
memories at which, in the long Hereafter, I could look 
back and smile. I consoled myself as did -^neas his 
old Trojans, — 

— forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit.” 

By the time I had reached my destination, however, 
a little of my courage had deserted me. I went into 
the store and asked for Mr. Emerson. I was shown at 
once into a small counting-room, and a gentleman rose 
to meet me with an air of polite attention. With a 
rapid glance I searched his face. His expression was 
kind,, and his countenance by no means destitute of 
refinement. In his eyes a look of habitual filendliness 
and real warmth of heart disputed the territory with 
the sagacious twinkle of the shrewd man of business. 
Now that I had reached the Rubicon, I felt a strange 
hesitation about crossing it. 


168 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


‘‘ Mr. Emerson, I believe ? ” I said, half falteringly. 

“ The same, Miss — ? ” 

“Hamilton,” I replied, answering his intonation of 
inquiry. “ I have called, sir, in reference to your 
advertisement for a saleswoman.” 

“ For whom did you wish the situation ? ” 

“ For myself.” 

A thousand exclamation points and notes of interro- 
gation twinkled in his eyes. I suppose neither my 
attire nor my manner had prepared him for such a dis- 
closure. He looked at me a moment; then he said, 
still very politely, — 

“For yourself? Have you ever served in such a 
capacity ? ” 

“Never, sir.” 

“ Have you any references ? ” 

“ No, sir, none.” 

I seemed to see a dismissal hovering upon his lips 
and waiting for utterance. My last hope for food and 
shelter was slipping away from me. I grew desperate. 
Before he had time to speak I interrupted him. In 
quiet, restrained tones, in few and simple words, I told 
him all my story. I did not dwell upon my grief; per- 
haps for that very reason he understood and sympa- 
thized with it the more. God bless his noble heart. 
He did not doubt for a moment the truth of my narra- 
tion. When I remember him and all his kindness, I 
rejoice that human nature, even when seared by the 
cares and disappointments of the world and of business, 
is not so bad as it has been jDainted. When I had 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE. 


169 


finished my story, I saw that his eyes were misty. He 
reached forward and shook my hand. 

“ Young lady,” he said, “ I have a daughter at home 
just about your age. Heaven save her from sorrow 
like yours, and Heaven send her a friend if such sor- 
row should come upon her. This situation is not good 
enough for you, — you should have one very different, 
— but, if you choose to take it until something better 
offers, you can come on Monday.” 

I tried to express my thanks, — to tell him that 
I hoped to prove worthy of his trust and kindness ; 
but he interrupted me, — 

“Good-morning now; you are weary and excited. 
If you will give me your address I will send my wife to 
see you to-morrow.” 

He glanced at the card which I handed to him, and 
as I was going out he said, — 

“Would you not wish. Miss Hamilton, to change 
your boarding-place for one nearer the store ? ” 

“ I should, and it would be necessary for me to seek 
one less expensive.” 

“Very well. Mrs. Emerson shall manage that. 
Good-morning.” 

I went home with my heart lightened of one heavy 
care ; but perhaps my sense of desolation was all the 
more bitter when there was no other emotion to con- 
tend with it in my thoughts. I will not linger upon 
my own feelings. I have dwelt on them too much 
already. 

The next day Mrs. Emerson called. She was a kindL 
8 


170 


SOME WOMEN’' S HEARTS, 


friendly woman, — a worthy helpmeet for her husband. 
She took me with her to see about a new boarding- 
plaee. In a by-street, not very far from Mr. Emerson’s 
store, a widow, poor but worthy, occupied part of a 
respectable house, and supported herself by plain 
sewing. She would be glad, Mrs. Emerson said, to eke 
out her scanty income by receiving a pleasant boarder. 
We went to see this Mrs. Gray, and I was much pleased 
with her quiet, civil manners and the neatness of her 
humble home. It seemed to me, in prospect, like a 
haven of rest. Before I left I had engaged to reside 
with her for the winter. That week I effected the 
removal of all my possessions. There was space in 
Mrs. Gray’s sitting-room for the bookcase containing 
my father’s library, and she seemed to take real pleas- 
ure in helping me to ornament the walls with the en- 
gravings I had brought. When we sat down to our 
toast and tea the apartment already wore quite a look 
of home. 

I said I would dwell no more on my own feelings. I 
must also pass lightly over the outward trials of that 
period of my life. And yet, for the next two weeks, 
they were by no means trifling. Besides the one great 
loss, which deadened the force of all after-blows, I had 
to give up so much. I was living far more humbly than 
I had ever lived before. Every superfluous luxury, of 
which habit had made almost a necessity, was aban- 
doned. Mrs. Gray, good, kind woman though she was, 
had no interest in my favorite pursuits, no sympathy 
with my tastes. Often had she been absent I should 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE, 


171 


have felt less alone. Added to this were the trials 
incident- to learning a new business. My occupation 
was even more, painful and disagreeable than I had 
supposed. My life had been hitherto very quiet and 
retired. Though not diffident, I had an instinctive 
shrinking from contact with strangers. However, I 
struggled with my distaste for putting myself forward. 
I conscientiously strove to sell all the goods I could ; 
and I had the satisfaction of knowing that, even in a 
business point of view, Mr. Emerson was satisfied with 
the result of his experiment. 

One day, when I had been there a few weeks, a 
gentleman came into the store, and advanced to the 
counter where I was standing. I scarcely know why 
he should have attracted as he did my particular atten- 
tion. It certainly was not because of any especial 
graces or charms of person. He had a lofty presence, 
a fine, commanding form; but it was not until long 
afterward that I learned to see any beauty in the stern 
lineaments of his face. The time came when I recog- 
nized the nobility of his expression, the power and 
firmness indicated by his features, and discovered into 
what gentle tenderness those calm eyes and stern lips 
could soften. But I saw none of these things then. 

I think what interested me was a certain desperate 
and hopeless sorrow, of which I detected the traces 
in his face. Those who themselves have suffered are 
quicker to perceive and respond to the sufferings of 
others. He made some trifling purchase, and went 
out ; but, for the first time since I had entered the 


172 


SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS. 


shop, I was roused from my selfish sorrow into a 
genuine interest and curiosity about another person. I 
speculated a long time that night, sitting silently before 
Mrs. Gray’s fire with a book between my fingers, as to 
what trouble could so have left its mark and seal of hope- 
lessness upon his countenance ; and he a man, allowed 
by the world’s creed to go where he pleased, to choose 
for himself friends and amusements. I was a woman, 
— desolate, bereaved of every friend whose love had 
made my life rich and desirable ; yet surely my face 
had never worn, in the darkefst hours, the impress of 
such absolute despair. 

It was not many days before I saw him again, and 
after that he came quite frequently to the store. He 
always seemed to prefer making his purchases at my 
counter; and my interest in him strengthened with 
every time I saw him. He treated me with as delicate 
a courtesy as he could have shown to an equal in 
society; and this formed such a pleasant contrast to 
the haughty arrogance of some of my customers, and 
the rude familiarity of others, that I began to mark the 
days on which he came with a white stone. 

At length a week passed without my seeing him. I 
should have blushed to acknowledge, even to myself, 
how much difference this made to me, — how often I 
thought of him, and how many conjectures I wasted as 
to whether I would ever see him again. Do not infer 
from this that I was at all what story-books call “ in 
love” with him. I can safely assert that my heart 
had not, at that time, approached even the verge of 


TWELVE TEARS OF MY LIFE, 


173 


that dangerous precipice. But it was pleasant to en- 
counter now and then, amidst the stagnation of my 
life, some one whose face roused me from my apathy, 
stimulating not only my curiosity but my sympathy ; 
the courtesy of whose manners recalled to me the 
agreeable associations of earlier days. 

At length I went home one evening and found a 
gentleman in Mrs. Gray’s little sitting-room. The cir- 
cumstance, so unusual in itself, surprised me; how 
much more when I perceived that her visitor was none 
other than the absentee concerning whom I had wasted 
so many thoughts. 

In accordance with her primitive ideas of courtesy, 
Mrs. Gray introduced us by name to each other ; and 
then she added, — 

“Mr. Lincoln has come, Gertrude dear, to get me 
to do some plain sewing for him ; though how in the 
world he happened to hear that I did such work I’m 
sure I don’t see.” 

Mr. Lincoln took no notice of the question so gently 
insinuated. He addressed a few courteous and agree- 
able remarks to me, in which he did not allude to the 
circumstance of his ever having seen me before, and 
then he took his departure. When he had reached the 
door, as if struck by a sudden recollection, he turned 
back, — 

“ By the way, Mrs. Gray, I forgot to bring you my 
pattern. I will leave it with you to-morrow evening.” 

After he went out my landlady became voluble at 
once. It was such a piece of good luck that he should 


174 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


have heard of her. He would pay her so much more 
than she could get at the shops. He was so polite, too, 
and so nice-looking. 

She was turning over the linen as she talked with 
busy fingers, making calculations which I was too much 
absorbed to notice. I had taken, involuntarily, so much 
interest in this Andrew Lincoln, without even knowing 
his name, and now Fate had so strangely brought us 
together again. Should I ever be better acquainted 
with him, — ever be able to solve the mystery written 
on his face ? Time would tell. 

He presently, after this, became quite a familiar vis- 
itor. At first it had not struck me as at all singular 
that he had heard of Mrs. Gray as a neat and reliable 
seamstress; but when a second dozen of shirts suc- 
ceeded the first, and these in turn were followed by 
other garments of various descriptions, whose construc- 
tion seemed to require his particular explanations and 
directions, I began to think, with Mrs. Gray, that “ he 
must be going a missionarying to some heathenish 
place where nobody knew how to sew,” or, — the 
thought would haunt me, so I may as well confess it 
here, — that he found pleasure in coming to my board- 
ing-place, and was determined to make a pretext for 
continuing his visits as long as possible. 

After a while, however, he seemed to ignore any 
necessity for excuses, and, by the time Mrs. Gray had 
finished his sewing, he had fallen into the habit of 
coming to see us quite regularly. He was lonely, he 
said, at his hotel, and it was so pleasant to come where 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE. 


175 


he could feel at home ; only, if he was intrusive or in 
the way, we must give him a hint. 

In an early stage of our acquaintance he had drawn 
from me, in the most delicate manner, the history of my 
past life. I hardly know how I was beguiled out of 
my reserve, — chiefly, perhaps, by his appreciation of 
my favorite books, and his warmly expressed admira- 
tion of the engravings which had been my father’s 
pride. I was in some sort obliged to explain how 
treasures so at variance with my present mode of life 
came into my possession. 

We had not been long acquainted, when, finding that 
I, as well as Mrs. Gray, was always at my needle when 
at home, he proposed to occupy the evenings he spent 
with us in reading aloud. I soon suspected him of a 
design in this manner to test my mental resources and 
study my character. He had a marvellous way of 
drawing out my opinions on various topics connected 
with art and literature, and then he would bring for- 
ward his own, — worth more than mine by as much as 
thorough knowledge and mental discipline are more 
valuable than mere taste and feeling. 

As our acquaintance progressed, I had gradually 
almost ceased to speculate concerning the sorrow 
whose profound and passionate impress had awakened 
my first interest in him. Indeed, I think that the sign 
and seal of despair had been uplifted from his face. 
Looking back, I believe that the hours he spent with 
me did him good and not evil, — that he was a happier 
and surely not a worse man for my influence. 


176 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


Was it strange that my life once more put on the 
colors of hope, — that flavor and tone and richness 
came back to it ? I no longer repined at the disagree- 
ableness of my daily task. Without my own knowledge 
or volition my feet had wandered to the very border of 
Love’s ideal realm, and already every thing had begun 
to look brighter than its wont, through the soft haze 
of that enchanted atmosphere. The spell which was 
woven round my life was more perfect than the devices 
of the old magicians. I had no room for discontent, — 
no longing for the talking bird, the singing tree, or the 
golden water ; or, perhaps, I had found them all. I do 
not mean that I had admitted, as yet, even to my own 
consciousness, that my heart had gone out from me, as 
Noah’s dove from the window of the ark, and, like 
that, would return no more. For the nonce, judgment 
and reason slumbered. Soon, however, came the mo- 
ment which roused them again from their repose. 

A neighbor’s child was sick, and Mrs. Gray went to 
take care of it through the night. I was to remain at 
home and alone. She had regretted this as she went 
out. 

‘‘ If Mr. Lincoln would only come,” she remarked ; 
“but it is not his evening.” 

My heart echoed her wish. “ If Mr. Lincoln only 
would come,” I thought, as I trimmed my lamp, and 
drew my chair up to the little round table with an in- 
tention of reading. Books were before me which had 
charmed many an hour in other days ; but somehow I 
did not care to read. I sat for half an hour looking 


TWELVE TEARS OF MY LIFE. 


177 


listlessly into the fire ; seeing there castles with shining 
turrets, flame-colored autumn woods, burning bushes 
bright as the vision of Moses. Remember I was but a 
girl, — barely eighteen. 

At length I heard a familiar tap upon the door, and 
sprang to open it. Mr. Lincoln had come. 

“ Alone ? ” he said, as he entered and glanced around 
the room. 

I explained the cause of Mrs. Gray’s absence. A 
look not so much of gladness as of relief crossed his 
face. He sat down with an air of resolve and delibera^ 
tion. 

“ It is fortunate that I came. I have been wanting 
to see you alone for a long time, and I intended to- 
night to have arranged such a meeting, but Fate or 
Providence seems to have managed it for me. I must 
tell you the whole truth, Gertrude, — a truth neither 
pleasant to tell nor to hear. You must know just how 
I am situated, and then you shall decide whether I can 
see you any more.” 

As he spoke the room seemed to grow very cold and 
dark. Struggling with the gloom, my eyes could only 
see his face, and on it sat more than the old despair. I 
felt a shuddering presentiment. The trouble which 
was coming nigh me seemed already to chill me with 
its icy touch. I folded my hands and nerved myself to 
listen. 

I cannot repeat the story which he told me in his 
own words. It was briefly this : — 

He had married, when quite young, a woman whom 
8 * 


L 


178 SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 

he thought he truly loved ; by whom he believed him- 
self beloved in return. She was beautiful ; a brunette, 
full of fire and pride ; wayward, exacting, and capri- 
cious. For a time her beauty had enslaved him, her 
petulant humors held him in thrall. After a while, 
however, her exactions became wearisome. He was 
tired of playing the lover, — coaxing and submitting by 
turns. He felt it was time that the quiet happiness of 
a peaceful union should succeed to the fantasies of a 
year-long honey-moon. At this she rebelled. He 
found that her temper, as well as her beauty, was of 
the torrid zone. A calm existence did not suit her. 
She cared little for the pleasures of the intellect, little 
for the quiet peace of domestic life, — she would have 
worship or war. He made this discovery just before 
the birth of his first child, — his little boy. This event 
had reawakened all his tenderness for the mother as 
well as the infant. 

Katherine was very beautiful in her illness, and 
toward her child she seemed to develop a patient love 
which was a new phase of her character. No sooner 
had she regained her usual health, however, than the 
customary miserable scenes of violence and contention 
commenced again. It might have been his fault even 
more than hers. He had been carried captive by her 
beauty, and had striven eagerly to obtain her hand, 
never pausing to consider whether her nature was 
really fitted to make him happy, and when she was his 
wife he had, like so many men, expected to find in 
her traits of character which she never had possessed. 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE, 


179 


In short, they had both mistaken for love d thought- 
less youthful passion, which had presently consumed 
itself. 

For three years after his boy’s birth things had gone 
on thus, — there had been tempests of wrath fierce as 
a tropic storm, long-continued estrangements, and now 
and then an interlude of reconciliation, a gust of fond- 
ness. By this time his little girl was born, and after 
that there were no more glimpses, ever so brief, of 
sunshine. 

For his children’s sake he strove, for still another 
year, to remain under the same roof with her, but 
a time came when this was no longer possible. Mutual 
recriminations had again and again goaded them almost 
to madness, until both became convinced that the only 
relief must be in separation. They parted in anger, 
without one word on either side, of relenting or forgive- 
ness. Four years had passed since that day, but he 
had not once seen the faces of wife or children. 

When he had proceeded thus far in his narration he 
paused, and sat for a few moments looking into the 
fire. I would fain have broken the silence with at least 
a sentence of sympathy, to let him know that I under- 
stood him, — that I had not listened to him unmoved, 

but I could not speak then. The time would come, 
no doubt, when I could forget my own anguish in my 
sympathy for his ; but I believe the first impulse of 
every human soul, — at least every woman’s, — in any 
hour of deathly agony, is selfish. With the poisoned 
arrow yet rankling in my own heart, how could I 


180 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


calmly strive to soothe in his a wound which had 
already begun to cicatrize ? 

At length he spoke again. 

“ I do not hate Katherine. God knows, Gertrude, 
that I pity her as fervently as I do myself. Kay, more; 
for she is a woman, and to a woman it is doubly terrible 
to know that she must live fo^ ever with her heart’s 
warmest longings repressed and stifled. But for me 
she might have married some one else, whom she could 
have made happy; with whom she could have been 
happy herself. Kow her life must be like mine, — 
desolate.” 

“ She has her children,” I found voice to say. 

“Yes, the children!” His face kindled. “They 
must be a great comfort now. Andrew is eight, and 
his little sister three years younger. You don’t know, 
Gertrude, how I have longed to see those children. I 
dream about them nights. I hear their baby words, 
and feel the clinging hold of their little Angers, and 
then I wake to remember that perchance they do not 
even know that their father lives to pray for them. 
But, Gertrude, their love would not be enough to fill 
up all the voids in my life. I have felt this more than 
ever since I knew you, and more than ever have I 
pitied Katherine in her lonely, blighted youth. 

“ You know now that I have no right to talk to you 
of love ; still, this once, I beseech you to hear all that 
is in my heart. When I first saw you I had little faith 
in love or woman. I should have rejected, as a simple 
absurdity, the idea that either could move me; and 


TWELVE YEARS OF MT LIFE. 


181 


yet, by some unconscious magnetism, you attracted me 
at once. When I went out of the store I found myself 
recalling your pale, sorrowful face ; your slight figure 
in its deep mourning robes ; the grace and delicacy of 
your manners. I wondered by what strange chance you 
had been placed in that position, so unsuited, as I at 
once saw it was, to your tastes and your previous habits. 
My curiosity, — let me call it by some better name, 
— my sympathy was fully aroused. I went again and 
again to the store. At length I resolved to know you 
better. I followed you home one night, and then set 
myself to learn all the particulars concerning your place 
of abode. I found that your landlady was a seamstress, 
and that made my course clear. 

‘‘ All this time, Gertrude, I had no thought of loving 
you. I had no right. To a man of honor his vows are 
as sacred in the untold wretchedness of an uncongenial 
marriage as if happiness had made it impossible to 
have a wandering wish. I believed myself incapable 
of breaking mine, even in thought. There was no 
reasonable ground on which the law could give me 
freedom. The release which is granted to crime is 
denied to misery. Even were it otherwise, I should 
not have sought it. I had always a horror of divorce, 
and not for worlds would I have entailed its disgraceful 
publicity upon my children. Freedom could come to 
me but in one way, and God knows, even when I 
have been tempted almost beyond my strength, I have 
never been mad enough or wicked enough to wish for 
that. Therefore I regarded myself as beyond all dan- 


182 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


ger of falling in love. Indeed, in your case the idea of 
love did not cross my mind. You had interested me, 
and I had so few interests in life that I determined to 
follow this one out, — to ascertain the cause of your 
uncongenial situation, — if possible, to aid you. 

“ When I had visited here for a while I found I could 
not stay away. Your society had become a necessity to 
me. I believed you my friend merely, but I discovered 
that friendship was very sweet. At last the knowledge 
forced itself home that I loved you with all the strength 
of my nature. This love had stolen upon me so grad- 
ually, and now seemed so much a part of my life, that 
I could scarcely chide myself. Had this been all, Ger- 
trude, I think you would never have heard the history 
I have told you. 1 would have schooled myself to 
taste calmly the dangerous delight of your presence; 
and when this was no longer possible, you should have 
seen me no more. But in the same hour that the con- 
viction of my love for you was brought home to my 
soul, I discovered also that I had it in my power to win 
your heart. I had a strange feeling as itj in the native 
country of souls, yours and mine had grown together. 
I believed I had power to summon my other self to my 
side. Nay, I thought that, unconsciously to yourself, 
you did love me now. Forgive me, Gertrude, I know 
that I am speaking to you as man does not often speak 
to woman, but in this hour there is no room for dis- 
guise or concealment. I read your heart as I had read 
my own. Then I knew my duty. I must tell you 
all, that you might understand how hopeless was my 


TWELVE TEARS OF MY LIFE. 


183 


future, — that you might conquer your coming agony 
before it was too mighty for you. I believe some 
men would have been tempted to keep silence, and 
strive still to win your love ; but, thank God, I was 
left open to no such temptation. More than I prized 
yourself I prized the stainless purity of your heart and 
life ; dearer to me even than my love was my unsullied 
integrity, by which only could I call myself your peer. 
I have told you all. Do you forgive me that I took for 
granted your love for me ? ” 

I could not speak, but I reached across the table 
which stood between us and laid my hand in his. Then 
for a while we were both silent. He spoke first : — 

“ Gertrude, I shall never talk of these things again. 
I have shown you this once all that is in my heart. In 
return I have a right to make but one request. I have 
wealth ; let me use some of it fbr you. I cannot bear 
to see you toiling day by day for your daily bread. 
While I have enough and to spare, you shall not, must 
not, wear out your young life in this drudgery. If 
you were my sister you would let me help you. Am I 
not as near to you as a brother ? Does not my love 
give me as much right as brothers claim ? Do not be 
angry, Gertrude. I hardly know how to utter my 
petition so as not to wound you. I beg only for this. 
Let me make a home for you among congenial people ; 
let me surround you with the common comforts of 
life ; let pie feel that you are at least above and beyond 
the necessity of toil. Then I will submit to any thing 
else. If you prefer, I will never see you; or, if you 


184 


SOME WOMEN'‘S HEARTS. 


will let me visit you sometimes, I will ask only for 
your friendship, — the sympathy you would give to 
suffering anywhere.” 

Ha paused, but I read an appeal in his face fuller of 
earnestness even than his words. I never for one 
moment doubted his honor or his heart. I knew that 
he respected me as deeply as he loved me, — that his 
care for me would be tender as that of a brother for a 
sister. But I was my father’s daughter. I had my 
own prile to satisfy also. I could not accept a pecu- 
niary obligation even from him. Still I did not wish to 
answer him then. I had my arrangements to make, — 
my future to settle. I would tell him in a week, I 
said, — not now. I was too tired, — too much ex- 
hausted. Would he leave me, and not come again for 
one week, — then he should know. He must give me^ 
time to think. 

He obeyed me. He only held my hand for a mo- 
ment, and then he went. 

‘‘Good-by, and God be with you,” I said, as he 
stepped out into the moonlight. He did not know 
that in my heart I meant that farewell to be the last 
utterance of my lips to him, until we should meet 
again where victor souls learn the triumphal anthem of 
the angels. 

I went back into the room where I had met this last 
and bitterest sorrow of my life. Soon my plan for the 
future was shadowed forth in my mind. Then I had a 
right to think over all that Andrew Lincoln had said. 

I reverenced him unspeakably. Little as I knew of 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE. 


185 


human nature, I realized — I had read “ J aiie Eyre ” — 
the ease with which he might have deceived me. I 
knew he loved me with a love as true and tender as 
pen of the romancers had ever portrayed. How I 
blessed him that it had been no selfish passion, — that 
his love for truth and right had been mightier. And 
yet, — answer me, heart of every woman who shall read 
this tale, — was my trial light ? Because of his very 
goodness, because I could reverence his image in my 
soul, and look up to it as almost without taint or flaw 
of human imperfection, was it not all the harder to 
know that between us swept the tide of circumstance, 
— remorseless as death, pitiless as destiny? 

And yet, in the midst of my desolation, it was some- 
thing to feel that he could have loved me, — that had 
Fate given us to each other I might have made him 
happy, — might have been his happy wife. 

I sat there until the first ray of the morning stole 
through the windows, I looked at the almost empty 
grate. Castles with shining turrets, flame-colored tints 
of autumn woods, burning bushes, all had vanished into 
the cold gray ashes, signifying desolation. Was it a type 
of what that night had done for my heart and life ? 

I walked toward the store that morning with a 
heavy heart. Once more I must fold my tent and go 
on alone into the desert. For a little time I had lin- 
gered beside an oasis of peace. I had tasted pleasure. 
It had proved a cheat, a mirage, it is true. No matter, 
it had gladdened my eyes while it lasted. Now I must 


186 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


give up all, — the home I had made for myself, the 
friends who had been kind to me, the work by which I 
had earned my bread. I must go, — where ? In that 
moment, clear as if my guardian angel had stooped to 
whisper them in my ear, came to me my father’s last 
words : — 

“ The widow^’s God, — a Father to the fatherless, — 
trust, my darlings, trust.” 

Had the invisible, strong arm ever failed me ? Heed 
r doubt it now ? I walked on with renewed courage. 

When I reached the store I sought an interview 
with Mr. Emerson. I told him that I had imperative 
need of change ; that there were reasons why I was 
unwilling to remain any longer in Hew York ; and I in- 
quired if he could help me with advice or suggestions. 

He told me, in reply, that he had felt from the first I 
ought not to be in my present situation. He knew the 
constant contact with strangers was repugnant to my 
taste ; that I was capable of doing something better. 
Still he had honored me for submitting so cheerfully to 
necessity; for doing so well what I had undertaken 
to do. Ever since I had been there he had been on the 
lookout for some different employment, by which I 
could maintain myself more agreeably, but as yet he 
had found nothing very desirable. Yet, if I was so 
anxious for an immediate change, there was something, 

— an advertisement he had seen in the evening paper, 

— a governess wanted for two small children, in East- 
ern Virginia. It did not seem to promise much, yet I 
might like it better than the store. 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE. 


187 


I thanked him eagerly. T do not often weep, but the 
tears choked my voice. It was not gratitude, though 
his kindness touched me deeply ; but I was leaving so 
much, — so much that he could never know. 

That morning a letter was dispatched to the address 
indicated in the advertisement, giving, as I afterward 
discovered, as much of my history as Mr. Emerson 
himself knew : praising me far beyond my deserts, and 
stating that, if my services were accepted, I would be 
ready to commence my duties immediately. 

Five days of my week of trial had already passed 
before an answer was received to that letter. In the 
mean time I had trembled lest I might not, after all, 
be able to get away, — lest I might be obliged to see 
Mr. Lincoln again, though I was convinced such an 
interview could only be productive of additional pain. 
At length my suspense was ended. Mr. Emerson’s 
recommendation was accepted, and he was requested to 
inform the young lady that a carriage would await her 

at the station on the afternoon of the twenty- 

seventh of April. The letter had been delayed one 
day in its transit, and I should just be able, by starting 
the next morning, to reach my destination at the ap- 
pointed time. 

That night, with Mrs. Gray’s assistance, I made all 
my preparations. I did not confide my plans for the 
future even to her. I told her enough of the circum-- 
stances in which I was placed to convince her that, for 
the present, it was better she should not know. I had 
previously secured from Mr. Emerson a promise of 


188 


SOME WOMEN'' S HEARTS. 


secrecy. He was to be deaf and dumb to all inquiries, 
should any be addressed to him. 

It was lafe in the night when I sat down alone before 
the sitting-room fire, and prepared to write a letter to 
Andrew Lincoln, which Mrs. Gray was to give him at 
his next visit. This was the hardest task of all, and 
yet in writing to him for the first and last time there 
was a troubled joy. I confessed to him that even as he 
had loved me so had I loved him, — loving better only 
God and the right. At the same time I bade him an 
eternal farewell. With a love in our hearts which it 
would be deadly sin not to conquer, I showed him that 
it would be worse than madness for us to meet. There 
was no safety but in parting for ever. I told him how 
impossible it was that I should accept from him any 
pecuniary assistance, and assured him that I was going 
to be so circumstanced as not to need it. Then I bade 
him good-by, thanking God that when he read the 
words he would never know the pang they had cost 
me. I suppressed the cry of anguish which would fain, 
through that dumb sheet, have made itself heard. If 
my tears fell, I took good care that they did not drop 
upon the paper. I signed my name firmly, and directed 
it on the outside to Andrew Lincoln, and then — 

It was a lovely afternoon when I stepped from the 
cars at my place of destination. The Virginian spring, 
earlier than ours, had already clothed the earth with 
verdure. I could hear birds singing in the near woods, 
and the air was full of a sweet, subtile odor, betokening 


TWELVE TEABB OF MY LIFE, 


189 


that it had lingered above beds of violets and the pale 
anemone. Just after the train stopped a handsome 
carriage drew up before the little depot, and an old 
gentleman, with silver hair and a kind benevolent face, 
alighted. ‘ 

‘‘Miss Hamilton, I conclude,” he said, cordially ex- 
tending his hand. “My name is Wentworth.” 

His appearance impressed me very pleasantly, yet it 
surprised me. I had pictured the Hichard Wentworth, 
whose name had been signed to the letter received by 
Mr. Emerson, as a young man, the father of the children 
in whose behalf my services were required. They 
must be his grandchildren, orphans, perhaps, and 
already I felt my heart yearning over them, — I knew 
what it was to be an orphan. 

“ Here are your pupils,” said Mr. W ent worth, as he 
handed me into the carriage. “ Andrew, Bella, this is 
Miss Hamilton.” 

The little girl was shy. She retreated to the farthest 
corner, and hid her curly head behind her grandfather’s 
arm. The boy, however, gave me his hand, with a 
frank, boyish welcome. As he lifted his blue eyes to 
my face a thrill struck to my heart. They looked to me 
like Andrew Lincoln’s own. 

“What nonsense!” I said to myself. “Has that 
name Andrew such a hold on your imagination that 
you cannot hear a child called by it without indulging 
yourself in fancies of an impossible likeness? ” 

The drive to Hazelwood was a short and pleasant 
one. I was not in a mood for enjoyment, and yet I 


190 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


was conscious of an involuntary sense of admiration at 
the sight of my future home. It was a gentleman’s 
mansion of the olden time, large, hospitable-looking, 
and somewhat quaint, with its old-fashioned gables, 
and the piazza surrounding it on all sides. Mr. Went- 
worth alighted, handed me from the carriage, and led 
me into the house with ceremonious politeness. He 
threw open the drawing-room door, and begged me to 
be seated while he found his daughter. 

“ Mamma is in the arbor, — I see her dress,” I heard 
one of the children say, and the three went out of 
sight. 

‘‘ They are not orphans, then, after all,” I said, as I 
threw myself back upon the sofa. I dared not trust my- 
self to think. Night was coming, loneliness and silence. 
Till then I remanded my thoughts ; I bade my heart be 
still. I took up, with some hope of distracting my atten- 
tion, a book which was lying beside me on the sofa. 

On its fly-leaf was written, “ To my wife, Katherine 
Lincoln,” with a date nine years before. I knew that 
handwriting. The book, then, had been Andrew Lin- 
coln’s gift to his wife during their year of honey- 
moon. The leaf had been partly torn out, as if in 
some moment of passion, and then spared by a tender 
afterthought. There were traces of tears upon the 
page. Her tears, — perhaps after all she loved him. 
If she did, God help and comfort her. Thank Heaven, 
my heart could breathe an honest prayer for her, even 
then. 

My destiny had led me here, — here of all places, — 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE. 


191 


under tlie same roof with Mr. Lincoln’s wife ; to be tlie 
teacher of his children. The room seemed dizzily 
whirling round and round. Chairs, tables, mirrors 
assumed fantastic shapes, and blended together like the 
colors in a kaleidoscope. I knew the symptoms, but I 
would not faint, — I was determined not to lose my 
self-command. I sat bolt upright and fanned myself 
vigorously. Presently the mist cleared from my brain. 
I was thankful for the lady’s delay, which gave me a few 
moments to reason with myself. 

Providence had brought me here, — I ought not to 
leave, now. Indeed I had nowhere else to go. There 
could be no place where 1 was more safe from the dan- 
ger of meeting him. This path had been opened to 
me, and my feet should walk on in it without faltering. 
Shall I confess that there was one gleam of troubled 
joy in the prospect ? I could love him and serve him 
innocently, in loving and serving his children. It was 
not strange that the boy — his son — had looked at 
me with his father’s eyes. It was not strange that I 
took him into my heart from that moment. I had 
made up my mind concerning the future, and fully 
regained my self-command, when a servant opened the 
door, and said : — 

“ Mrs. Lincoln is coming, ma’am. She will be with 
you at once.” 

She had scarcely ceased speaking when her mistress 
came into the room. 

I rose to meet her, — face to face I stood with An- 
drew Lincoln’s wife. Physically, she was the most 


192 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS, 


choice and perfect specimen of beautiful womanhood 
[ had ever seen. To this day I think I have never met 
her peer. The picture she made as she stood there will 
never fade from my memory. The crimson curtains 
fell apart at the western window, and the golden sun- 
set rays lit up her dark hair into warm chestnut tints. 
Full, queenly figure, clad all in white, as suited the 
balmy April day, — bright cheeks, and lips of the red- 
dest bloom, — eyes full of slumberous fire, — little 
hands, glittering with gems, — she charmed me like a 
figure from an Oriental romance. 

Her husband had told me she was proud, but she 
never could have been haughty. There was a certain 
childlike impulsiveness in her manner still, — she would 
carry it with her all her life. 

She took my hand and looked searchingly into my 
face for a moment. 

“ I am sure I shall like you,” — she said the words 
with a warm, satisfied smile. “ Let us be real friends, 
Miss Hamilton.” 

‘‘We will.” I answered her quietly, but in the 
silence of my soul I recorded the words as a vow. 
God knows I have kept it. I was her true friend from 
that hour. 

Days wore on, and something which was not quite 
happiness, yet bore a strange resemblance to it, stole 
into my heart. I loved Andrew Lincoln’s children as I 
shall never love children again, and I loved Katherine 
his wife. Her character must have changed much in 
the solitary years since her husband left her. She was 


TWELVE TEAES OF MY LIFE. 


19B 


not exacting now, — certainly not selfish. I have never 
seen a mother more tender or devoted, especially to 
Andrew, whose resemblance, in both face and manner, 
to his father, daily appeared to me more striking. W as 
this likeness the secret of the tears I so often saw in 
her eyes when she kissed him ? 

She had appeared to like me from the first. She 
sought my society, and seemed to wish me to consider 
myself not her children’s governess merely, but her 
friend and her equal. One day, with a gush of passion- 
ate weeping, she told me her story. It was much the 
same which I had listened to before from Andrew Lin- 
coln’s lips, only she blamed herself more than he had 
blamed her. It was all her fault, she said. She had 
been a spoiled child, turbulent, and exacting, and she 
had played with his love until she had lost it. 

‘‘ And did you love him all the while ? ” I asked. 

‘‘ I did not think so' then, but I am sure now that my 
real love for him never wavered. For a long time, 
though, I thought that I actually hated him. My 
fierce temper was in the ascendant. He provoked me, 
and I suppose I was half mad. I told him more than 
once that all I would ask in the world would be to have 
him go away from me out of my sight, and never tor- 
ment me again with his presence.” 

“ And he only took you at your word ? ” 

She smiled bitterly. “ Only that ; but he had not 
been gone long before I knew that he had taken with 
him all I cared for in life. I am a desolate, heart- 
broken woman, Gertrude. I have my children, it is 
9 * 


M 


194 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


true; his children and mine. It is that, I believe, 
which has kept me alive ; but I would give every thing 
on earth to feel the forgiving pressure of his lips, to 
hear him say, as he used to, ‘ Katherine, I love you. 
Uh, if you only knew him you could tell better what I 
have lost, and what bitter right I have to mourn.” 

If I only knew him ! Alas, alas, did I not know him 
too well for my own heart’s peace ? He was indeed all 
she had pictured him, — but what was that to me ? He 
was hers only. He ought to be hers. She was worthy 
of him, too. I commanded myself perfectly. Ko one 
could have suspected that I was more than Katherine 
Lincoln’s sympathizing friend, — no one dreamed that 
I had ever heard of her husband before. I asked, in 
quiet tones, — 

“ But why, if you think the chief fault was yours, 
have you not written to him to come back? Was it 
not your duty to make the first advances, if yours had 
been the first blame ? Do you say that you love him 
and are yet too proud for this, Mrs. Lincoln ? ” 

She shook her head sadly. 

“It is not pride, Gertrude. Pride with me died a 
violent death, long ago, but I love my husband. What 
comfort would his presence be when I knew that his 
heart had shut me out ? And yet I think sometimes, 
that he might love me now better than he used. I have 
tried so hard since he went away to grow up to his 
standard, — to be all that he admired in women. It 
has been -the law of my life. Vain words. Men never 
tread the same path twice, do they ? I was hateful to 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE, 


195 


him when he went away. He might come back, if I 
sent for him, out of duty or pity, but if he loved me he 
would wait no summons.” 

There was truth in her words, and yet I felt that 
they must, in some way, be brought together. What 
capacities for blessing were in both their natures. Her 
love for him, despite all, was so true and so steadfast. 
He would love her if he were to see her now, — he 
could not help it. I longed to do something to bring 
about their reconciliation, — but how ? There was 
nothing for it but to fold my hands and wait. Had I 
ceased to love him myself?' Why torture me with this 
question ? I strove then to put self and selfish feelings 
out of sight. I was trying to follow Christ, though it 
were but afar off. Should I shrink because the way 
was hard ? From the time I came to Hazelwood I had 
never thought of Andrew Lincoln without thinking at 
the same time of Katherine, his true and loving wife. 

For a whole year we lived on peacefully together, — 
Katherine, her children, and I. I had learned to love 
her as if she were my sister. I shared, I believe, all 
her thoughts, and I knew she was each day growing 
into purer and more perfect womanhood, — more and 
more worthy of being a good man’s honored and cher- 
ished wife, — as she ought to be, as I trusted in God 
she would be soon. She was singularly gentle and 
winning now, but as sad as she was tender. We used 
to talk often of her husband ; but when I prophesied 
that he would come back some day and make her 
happy, she used to say that I did not know him, — I 


196 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEABTS. 


could not dream how utterly he had ceased to love her. 
She should never see him on earth. Perhaps it would 
be permitted her to go to his side, and ask his forgive- 
ness in heaven. 

It was in April that little Andrew fell sick. We 
sent for a physician, but before he came I was well 
satisfied what we had to dread. “ Scarlet fever,” he 
whispered, as he bent over the bedside, thus confirm- 
ing our worst fears. When he went out of the room 
my eyes met Katherine’s. I understood her expression, 
and answered the question it implied. 

“Yes, you must write to him. There can be no 
doubt about your course now. You say he loved his 
children dearly. How could you answer for it to him 
or to yourself if Andrew should die, and he not be here 
to see him ? Think if you had been away from your 
child five years and could not even give him one 
poor, parting kiss before he was snatched from you for 
ever ! ” 

“But Andrew may not die; oh, it will kill me if he 
should.” 

“And yet he may, — in any case, you have your 
duty to do.” I spoke with decision and severity; I 
could not allow myself to falter. They must be re- 
united now if ever. 

She went to a writing-desk which stood in the corner 
of the room and wrote for a few moments rapidly. 
Then she came and put the sheet into my hand. 

“ Read it, Gertrude. Have I done rightly ? ” 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE, 


197 


* My Dear Husband, — Andrew, our little boy, is 
very ill. The doctor calls it scarlet fever. I thought 
that you would wish to see him. Your presence would 
be the greatest comfort. Your faithful wife, 

‘‘Katherine Lincoln.” 

This was the note. Could it fail to touch that 
strong, true heart of his ? 

I had little time for speculations, or Katherine Lin- 
coln for hopes. Andrew grew worse rapidly, until the 
question was no longer whether he would recover, but 
how many hours he could live. Neither of us left him 
for a moment except occasionally, when one or the 
other would steal away, to whisper a few words of 
comfort to poor little Bella, who was kept in a distant 
wing of the house in order to be removed from the 
danger of infection. But we could not go out of the 
room without those restless, preternaturally bright 
eyes missing us in a moment, and then the little, weak 
voice would wail, — “ Mamma, Gerty, don’t leave Andy, 
please.” So we watched over him constantly together, 
neither sleeping, eating, nor weeping. 

It was the afternoon of the fourth day since Mrs. 
Lincoln had dispatched her letter. A change had 
passed over Andrew’s face sudden and fearful. We 
knew too surely what it portended. He was dying. 
In a few moments his soul would go forth, and leave 
the fair little body lying upon the pillows still and 
tenantless. Katherine’s eyes met mine, with a look of 
Btony, immovable wtetchedness in them that fairly 
chilled me. 


198 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


‘‘To think,” she said, “that he will not be here, — 
that he can never see poor little Andrew again alive. 
Gertrude, this is my work.” 

I knew the step which came, at that very instant, so 
hurriedly across the hall. So did she, for she clasped 
her hands tightly upon her breast, as if to hold her 
heart from breaking. She looked as white as a marble 
statue, and as fair. I could see that, even in the 
midst of my sickening anguish over the boy whom I 
loved as if he were my own. I do not think Andrew 
Lincoln looked at her as he crossed the threshold. I 
think he saw nothing but the little wan, death-stricken 
face upon the pillows. He sprang to the bedside and 
knelt down with a groan of despair ; he had recognized 
the impress on the pallid brow. 

Do dying eyes see more clearly than living ones? 
Andrew was nine years old now; he had been only 
four when he saw his father last, and yet his face 
lighted up with a sudden, glad glow of recognition. 
“ Papa, papa ! ” — he piped the words in his clear boy 
ish treble, as joyously as I had ever heard him speak. 
He stretched up his arms, and his father caught him to 
the bosom that, for five years, had longed so vainly for 
the touch of that little head. “ Papa, papa ! ” and the 
face ^nd eyes brightened with a radiance as of dawning, 
— the pale, quivering lips sought the father’s lips bend- 
ing to meet them, — a shiver ran along the slender 
limbs, and then the golden head dropped backward. 
Andrew Lincoln’s boy was dead. 

Katherine saw it, and the energies so long taxed 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE. 


199 


gave way at last. She fell at her husband’s feet in a 
death-like swoon. He kissed the white, still face ere he 
lifted her. “ Poor Katherine ! ” I heard him murmur. 
Was there a quiver of love in his tones, or was it only 
pity? 

“ Had we not better take her into the next room ? 
She ought not to be here when she comes to herself” I 
said, forgeting at the moment how strangely my voice 
would fall upon his ears. I had been standing in 
the shade of the bed-curtains, and he had not seen me 
before. 

“ You, Gertrude ? ” The words, with their accent of 
questioning surprise, came as if involuntarily from his 
lips, and then neither of us spoke again while we 
carried his wife into the next room, and busied our- 
selves in restoring her. I only waited until she opened 
her eyes and, putting back the hair from her white face, 
sat up and looked at her husband, before I went away 
from them. I did not stop to think ; I knew it would 
not be wise or safe. I went at once to Mr. W entworth, 
who was with Bella, to tell him of Andrew’s death, and 
Mr. Lincoln’s arrival. I had occupation for a while in 
soothing the little girl. Then with my own hands 
I made ready my boy — mine by the love I bore him 
— for the grave. I brushed the soft, curling hair round 
the still face, restored now to more than the beauty of 
life, and frozen into the last and sweetest smile of all. 
When I had arranged all things, I went again to his 
parents. They were sitting near together upon the 
sofa, and Katherine was repeating, in a voice broken 


200 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


with sobs, all the details of those last sad days. Even 
then, she thought of me with her usual tender consider- 
ation. When I went into the room she said : — 

“ This is Miss Hamilton, who has been to me the 
dearest and truest of friends. We can never thank her 
enough for all she has done for Andrew. He loved 
her scarcely less than he loved his mother.” 

How strange it seemed to have him speak to me in 
such words, constrained yet grateful, as a husband 
would naturally use to his wife’s friend, who had been 
kind to his dead child. He had uttered such different 
ones when we met last. I was weak, I know, but I 
could not command myself sufficiently to answer him. 
I only said ; — 

“I have dressed our darling now. I thought you 
would wish to see him.” 

They rose and went together into the still room 
where lay their dead. I staid alone. Even my love 
and my grief gave me no claim on that consecrated 
hour. 

Andrew had died on Thursday. On Saturday after- 
noon he was to be buried. I had passed Friday in 
my own room, keeping Bella with me most of the time. 
The poor child was almost frantic at the loss of her 
brother, and it was well for me to have some one 
besides myself to think of and to comfort. I believe 
Mrs. Lincoln passed that long, dreary day, for the most 
part, alone. Much of the time I could hear her hus- 
band’s restless steps pacing along the piazza, and once 
I knew he went away for a solitary walk. 


TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE. 


201 


It was Saturday morning. Andrew had been put 
into his little casket, and I had just gathered a basket- 
ful of white and sweet-scented flowers to strew about 
him. I stole noiselessly into the room where he lay. 
1 thought no one else was there ; but when I had gone 
up to the coffin I saw, in the dim light, Andrew Lincoln 
sitting motionless at its head. He looked up, and our 
eyes met. 

“ God has taken him, Gertrude ; I am written deso- 
late.” 

There was such a wild pathos in his tones. They 
went to my soul. How I longed to comfort him. 

“ 'Not desolate,” I cried, “ surely not desolate. Bella 
is left you, and your wife,” — and then I went on, car- 
ried quite out of myself, half forgetful of even the 
presence of the dead, in my passionate longing, at 
whatever cost, to reunite those two and make them 
both happy. 

“You wonder, doubtless, at my presence here, in 
your home ; but I came ignorantly. I thought the 
best answer to what you said to me the last evening 
we passed together was to go quite away from you, 
before there should be any thing in our acquaintance 
which it would be painful to remember. This situation 
presented itself ; I obtained it through Mr. Emerson, 
and came here, never dreaming — it was Mr. Went- 
worth who advertised — that the children I was to 
teach were yours. I had not been here a month before 
I loved your wife as I think I should love a sister. 
She was so true, so earnest, so unselfish. At length 
9 * 


202 


SOME WOMENS 8 HE ARTS. 


she told me her story, the same I had heard from you, 
only she blamed herself as you had never blamed her. 
All the fault was hers, she said. You were every 
thing that was noble. I knew how true her sorrow 
had been by the change it had wrought in her. There 
was nothing left in her character of pride or petulance. 
She was a sweet and gentle woman, the tenderest 
and most patient of mothers, the fondest and truest 
of wives ; and therein lay the wretchedness that was 
breaking her heart. She dared not seek to recall you, 
for she believed that your love for her was utterly 
dead. She had no hope left in life. When Andrew 
was taken sick she sent to you because it was her duty, 
but she wrote, I knew, with more of fear than of hope. 
She loves you, Mr. Lincoln, as no words of mine can 
ever tell you. Thank God that in taking your boy 
to be an angel in heaven He has restored your wife to 
bless all the years of your life on earth.” 

He did not answer me. For an instant he took my 
hand in a grateful pressure. There were tears in his 
eyes, — through their mist I could not look into his 
soul. He left me and went out of the room. I knew 
he had gone to her. Their sorrow could not be all 
bitterness when it restored them to each other. But I, 
— where was my fountain of consolation ? Death had 
taken the bright, noble boy I loved so well, and had 
given me nothing. I had a right to weep as I stood 
beside the dead and pressed my hot, throbbing fore- 
head to the little cold hand. He had gone from me to 
a land where there would be no sin in loving. 


TWELVE YE AES OF MY LIFE. 


203 


Two weeks had passed since little Andrew’s funeral, 
and from my seat under the pines I could see through 
the distant greenery the gleam of the white marble 
cross on which his name was graven. I sat there, 
where the shadows danced about me as the sunlight 
glanced fitfully through the boughs, looking listlessly 
at the beautiful landscape, and thinking mournfully 
about my life. Again had I come to one of its mile- 
stones. Again, yet again, must I take up my pilgrim’s 
staff and go onward, into what strange scenes, amidst 
what perils, who could tell? Others, I thought, had 
friends, and love, and home, — sweet rest, safe shelter. 
Why had Fate dealt so hardly with me ? I was not 
wont to repine, to be thankless and discontented ; but 
this once I had consented to taste the cup of self-com- 
miseration. I found its waters bitter. 

‘‘ Gertrude,” — it was Mr. Lincoln’s voice. Screened 
by the trees, I had not seen him coming till he stood 
before me. 

“ I have been looking for you,” he said. “ I want 
you to promise to remain with us. Katherine says you 
talk of going away. I have told her the whole story 
of our acquaintance. She knows how dear you became 
to me once, how dear you will always be to me. She 
loves you, too, as one woman seldom loves another, and 
it is her prayer as well as mine that you will always 
live with us and be our sister. Do not refuse,” — his 
eyes searched my face anxiously, — “ we cannot give 
you up. You shall be in all things as if you had been 
born Katherine’s sister or mine. I will not ask for 


204 


SOME WOMEN'^S BEAUTS, 


your answer now, lest you deny me. Perhaps my wife 
may be better able to persuade you.” 

He stood there beside me for a few moments after he 
had done speaking, but beyond a mere expression of 
my thanks I made him no reply, and presently he went 
away. Then I sat and thought for a long time. Here 
was all offered to me for w^hich I had been pining, — 
with the want of which I had upbraided my fate. 
Love, — for I knew they would cherish me tenderly, 
both of them, Katherine as well as her husband, — 
friends, and a home, — a safe shelter, from which I 
need go out no more until I should exchange it for the 
home and the peace which are eternal. Should I 
accept all this ? Was it not too pleasant to be safe? 
Was not its very sweetness dangerous? Could I 
answer for my own heart? Was I sure that I could 
live for years under the same roof with Andrew Lin- 
coln and never think of hours whose perilous happiness 
duty bade me forget for ever? He might be safe. 
Katherine was beautiful, and she loved him ; but where 
was the fine-linked armor with which to shield my 
woman’s heart? 

Ko, I would not stay. They and I should be better 
apart. Our paths led far away from each other. They 
might wander wherever the flowers smiled or the birds 
beguiled them. I must go out into the world to do my 
work, to earn the bread I should eat. But the prospect 
which had looked so gloomy to me an hour before 
seemed changed. Things from which there is no 
escape always confront us with a sterner mien. Kow 


TWELVE YEABS OF MY LIFE, 


205 


that a choice had been ojffered me, and I knew that 
ease and leisure might be mine for the taking, I could 
accept work thankfully, recognizing its ministry as best 
for my soul’s needs. I cheerfully made up my mind, 
and then I went into the house. 

Mrs. Lincoln met me in the hall. She put her arm 
round me, and kissed me with a deeper tenderness in 
her manner than I had ever felt before. 

“You are going to be our sister, Gertrude?” 

“Gladly; I am most thankful to owe to friendship 
the tie which birth denied me.” 

“ And we will be so happy, all of us together.” 

“But I cannot stay here. I will be your sister 
always, — your faithful, loving friend while life lasts; 
but it would not make me happiest to live here. 
I must be independent, even of those I most 
value.” 

This was my firm resolution, and I kept to it. In 
vain were all their entreaties, and at length they de- 
sisted from them. Perhaps Katherine’s womanly intui- 
tions interpreted my heart as no man, not even the 
best man, could do. When she found that I was not 
to be moved, that 1 would not go their way, she be- 
stirred herself to help me go my own. I owe to her 
the situation in which I am passing the midsummer of 
my life. I am a teacher in a girl’s school. Young, 
bright faces are around me, — young hearts gladden me 
with their love. I have no hopes or dreams of any 
other future in this world, and, perhaps, for this reason 
I do my duty the better. 


206 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


It is ten years since little Andrew died, and Bella — ^ 
now a young lady of sixteen — is the dearest of my 
pupils. Three ^ears ago she came to me to be edu- 
cated. 

“I bring her to you because we can express how 
deeply we trust and honor you in no stronger manner 
than by giving you our only child to train. Make her 
like yourself, and we shall be satisfied.” 

These were her father’s words when he put her hand 
in mine, and since then she has been my chief comfort. 
She was too young to remember the one sad episode in 
her parent’s lives. I heard her just now discussing 
with two of her friends, as such young things will, love 
and marriage. I heard her say, — 

“You are wrong, Fanny, if you think people always 
cease to care much about each other after a little while. 
My father and mother have been married twenty years, 
and you cannot find me two in their honey-moon who 
love each other more fondly or are happier.” 

She is right. Andrew Lincoln and his wife are 
happy, with that full blessedness which only love can 
give. I think of them daily, and rejoice in their joy. 
For myself, — if one’s path lies always in the shadow, 
one will never die from a stroke of the sun, — I am 
content. 

For this long ten years I have never been to Hazel- 
wood. Its master and mistress come to see me every 
summer, and I know it grieves them that I postpone so 
long the visit I am always promising. I shall go some 
day. I want to see how the roses have grown about 


TWELVE TEARS OF MY LIFE 


207 


the grave where little Andrew has slept so long. I 
shall press my lips to that white cross which gleams 
above him, and offer on that spot my prayer of thanks 
giving for life apd all the blessings of life. 


LITTLE GIBRALTAR. 


TT was a lonely place. Every day, and all the day, as 
it seemed, the wind blew steadily from east to west, 
for the boughs of all the trees were bent for ever 
toward the sunset. On three sides the sea broke sul- 
lenly against the rocks of the small promontory, and 
went back again, repulsed and discomfited. The house 
and grounds which occupied the whole of this sea-girt 
nook formed an estate which was called Little Gibraltar. 
The name was not inappropriate. Thousands of years, 
doubtless, had the waves stormed those gray rocks, — 
thousands of years had the rocks stood firm and thrown 
them back again into the sea. One could imagine the 
assault going on for ever, — the repulse eternal. 

Ten years ago it was that I saw the place first. I 
had a friend at school who won such foothold in my 
affections as no girl had ever won before. We were 
not intimate, as school-girls reckon intimacy. We had 
no secrets to tell, or, if we had, we told none. We 
made no rash vows by starlight and moonlight, but we 
liked to be together, and we had tastes and fancies in 
common. I have always loved beautiful women, and 
this Elinor O’Connor was “beautiful exceedingly.” 


LITTLE 0 IBB ALT All. 


209 


It was not until I had known her a long time that I 
learned any thing of her history. When I did, I ascer- 
tained that her father was an Irish gentleman of con- 
siderable w^ealth, who had fled to this country years 
before with his bride, the daughter of a noble family, 
whom he had stolen, not against her will, from a con- 
vent. Leoline was the young wife’s fanciful name. 
She had died five years after the birth of her first 
child, Elinor, taking with her to the world of spirits an 
hour-old baby. My friend could just remember her 
mother, and she told me that her manners were so win- 
ning and her beauty of so rare a type that the life-long 
efiect of her loss upon the husband, who idolized her, 
was by no means unaccountable. 

Soon after her death he had purchased Little Gibral- 
tar, and having arranged the grounds and built the 
house after a certain fantastic plan of his own, had 
retired there with his young daughter, an efficient 
housekeeper, who also acted as a sort of nurse or 
superintendent to little Elinor, and a corps of good 
servants, who had ever since retained their situa- 
tions. 

Elinor’s description of her home had abundantly 
excited my interest and stimulated my curiosity, and 
I accepted with extreme satisfaction her invitation to 
pass the long summer vacation — our last before grad- 
uating — at Little Gibraltar. At first I hesitated, lest 
my intrusion should be unwelcome to the master of this 
strange domain; but when I was assured that his 
consent had been solicited and obtained before the 


210 


SOME WOMEN-^S HEARTS. 


invitation was extended, I set aside my scruples and 
anticipated only pleasure. 

The last week in June school closed. A staid serv- 
ing-man came for Elinor, and took all the trouble of 
our baggage and bundles. We had a five hours’ car 
ride, and then we got out at a little country station. 
John, the serving-man aforesaid, went to a stable across 
the road, and came back with a sort of family coach 
drawn by two powerful black horses. We got inside, 
and he mounted the box, and ofi* we drove. It was 
three miles, I should think ; but long before we reached 
our journey’s end we could see Little Gibraltar gleam- 
ing stately on its rocky height, with the sea climbing 
for ever at its base. Elinor pointed to it, as she said, 
with more eagerness than she had been speaking be- 
fore, — 

‘‘ Home, Aria ! ” 

“ Is it home ? ” I remember I asked her. “ It looks 
to me like an enchanted castle of Mrs. Radclifie’s times. 
It is strange, and in a weird sort of way, very beautiful | 
but it does not seem homelike.” 

‘‘ Perhaps it isn’t, as most people reckon homelike ; 
but it’s all the home I have ever known since I was 
old enough to remember. I don’t know where it was 
that I lived with my mother. It is singular that I 
should recall so clearly as I do her wonderful beauty 
and wayward grace. There is one thing I ought to tell 
you. Aria. My father, sane enough about every thing 
else, believes that he sees her now, — that sometimes 
she comes and calls him, and he goes out and keeps 


LITTLE GIBB ALTAR. 


211 


tryst with her. I know not whether it is madness, or a 
clearer vision than has been given to others.” 

Elinor’s face had kindled as she spoke, and there was 
such a strange, far-seeing look in her eyes that I should 
not have been surprised if she had told me that she, 
too, had this clearer vision which could pierce through 
the veil of mysteries. 

We were near the place by this time, for John drove 
rapidly. The house was a rambling, castle-like build- 

ing,— 

“ With its battlements high in the hush of the air, 

And the turrets thereon,” 

built of some pure white stone, which glittered in the 
sunset. A long flight of winding steps led from the 
entrance hall to the carriage road below, and at the foot 
of these steps stood, ready to welcome us, Reginald 
O’Connor, his hat lifted, his whole manner full of 
courtly grace. Unconsciously I had formed an idea 
of him. I had fancied him a sad, silent, elderly 
mourner, bowed and wasted by grief, indifferent to 
all the small observances of life. I saw, instead, the 
handsomest man, the stateliest gentleman I have ever 
met. 

He was not yet quite forty, and he scarcely looked 
ten years older than Elinor. He had dark eyes, pene- 
trating, yet with a curious, dreamy, speculative look in 
them. His heavy, black hair was brushed back from 
his high, thoughtful brow, — a brow a little too narrow, 
a little wanting in the indications of combative force 


' 212 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


and strength, without which a man may be good, and 
gifted, and graceful, but never great. I had been inter- 
esting myself in Spurzheim and Lavater, so I analyzed 
his head and face, while he stood waiting, before the 
carriage stopped. I discovered that his was the tem- 
perament of a poet, — that he had ideality, veneration, 
and a wonderful power of personal magnetism, — that 
lie could enjoy and suffer keenly, but that he lacked 
fortitude, and perseverance, and hope, — that there 
was a certain weakness in his character whjch was con- 
sistent with the highest physical courage, but which 
made him helpless before that mysterious something 
which, for want of a better name, we call Destiny. He 
could never, therefore, rise above a great sorrow. If I 
had not made this analysis then I should never have 
made it afterward, for there was something about him, 
as I found presently, a certain nameless charm, which 
defied criticism. 

As the carriage stopped Elinor jumped from it into 
his arms. He gave her a quick kiss, and then extended 
his hand to me. 

“ This is so kind of you. Miss Germond,” he said, as 
he helped me out. “You are a pioneer, too, — the first 
lady who has ever visited at Little Gibraltar. You had 
need of good courage.” 

“ It did not require a great deal of courage to bring 
me with Elinor.” 

He looked at me inquisitively, as if he wondered how 
genuine my words were. Then he smiled. 

“ I believe you and she do honestly love each other, 


LITTLE GIBRALTAR. 


213 


in spite of all the sneers about girls’ friendships. 1 can 
answer for Elinor. I have heard, for two years, of 
nothing but Aria, until I have learned the sweet name 
by heart.” 

He had given me his arm, and was leading me up the 
stairs. Elinor was running on before us, gayer than I 
had almost ever seen her. She looked back, nodded 
laughingly, and said, — 

“That’s right, papa. Vouch to Aria for my devo- 
tion.” 

In a moment we stood in the entrance hall, — a lofty 
apartment lighted by a dome, and in the midst of which 
a circular staircase wound upward. It was paved with 
tessellated marble, and hung with pictures which, as I 
learned afterward. Col. O’Connor had himself painted. 
On one side a door was thrown open into a conserva- 
tory full of choice flowers, beyond which was a spacious 
library. On the other side another door opened into a 
large and lofty drav^ng-room. Into this latter apartment 
my host led me, having paused by the way to introduce 
me to Mrs. Walker, — the housekeeper, to whom I have 
before referred, — who continued to matronize and 
superintend the establishment. Elinor lingered a little 
to talk to her, and the Colonel and I walked into the 
drawing-room alone. Opposite the door an immense 
pier-glass filled the space between two great windows, 
and as we stepped in we saw ourselves reflected in it ; 
I still leaning on his arm, and he bending toward me 
with his air of courtly deference. A sudden and curi- 
ous presentiment thrilled me like a suggestion from 


214 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


some one unseen, — a presentiment which told me that 
in some mysterious way my fate and his were linked. 
And at the same time I heard a whisper, distinct yet 
low, as if it came from far, — “Beware.” 

I seemed, in some way, to know that this whisper was 
not meant for me, but for my companion. I felt sure 
that he heard it also, for he released my hand which he 
had been holding upon his arm, and offered me a chair. 
I saw that his face was pale, and his lips had a nervous 
quiver. Then Elinor came in, with Mrs. Walker, and 
a sober, middle-aged lady’s maid, ready to show me to 
my room ; and her father told us that dinner would be 
served in half an hour. I thought he was glad to have 
us go upstairs. 

My room opened out of Elinor’s, and looked, like 
hers, toward the unquiet, shimmering sea. I refused 
the maid’s assistance, and when my door was shut sat 
down a moment to look out of my window and think. 
The waters had a curious phosphorescent glow and 
glitter. They seemed mysterious and infinite as the 
fathomless sky which bent above them, — mysterious as 
destiny, infinite as immortality. What puppets we 
human beings are for Fate to play with, I thought, — 
beneath the dignity of actors, — not knowing even our 
own parts, or whether it were tragedy or comedy in 
which we should be called to perform, — whether the 
play were in five acts or in one. 

My vacation was to be two months long. I felt as 
if I were going to live more in that time than I had in 
my whole life before. 


LITTLE GIBRALTAR, 


215 


I opened my trunk. My drama must begin, like 
many another, with dressing and dining. I had never 
been able to decide whether I was handsome or not, — > 
though I knew my style was unique. It was certainly 
not that which those unfledged youth who haunt the 
steps and dog the walks of boarding-school misses 
most delight in ; for I had never received a compliment 
in my life, unless the look in Col. O’Connor’s eyes this 
afternoon had been one. 

I had a low brow, round which the dark hair drooped 
heavily, a clear, dark skin, and the coloring in all 
respects of a brunette, except that my eyes were blue 
as turquoise, — a bright, light blue. This contradiction 
between my eyes and the rest of my face made me 
striking, peculiar : I must try my power before I could 
tell whether or not it made me pleasing. 

I put on a black dress, which suited me, for it 
drooped in heavy, rich folds about my figure, which 
was full and tall. Soft, old lace was at my wrists, and 
was fastened at my throat by a brooch made of an 
Egyptian scarabaeus, and which glittered like an evil 
eye at my throat. Then I was ready, and had ten 
minutes more, while I was waiting for Elinor, in which 
to wonder as to the meaning of the strange whisper 
I had heard. She came for me at last, and we went 
downstairs. 

The drawing-room was lighted now, and I noticed, 
as I had not before, the extreme richness and elegance 
I of all its appointments. One would have thought that 
in furnishing it the master of Little Gibraltar had been 


216 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


arranging for gay feasts and grand festivals, instead of 
fitting himself ujd a refuge in which to hide away his 
sorrow. 

One recognized everywhere traces of that exacting 
ideality which would not be satisfied with less than 
perfection. At the farther end of the room folding 
doors were thrown open into a dining-room, where a 
table glittered with plate and crystal. Col. O’Connor 
met us at the door, and, giving me his arm again, took 
me in to dinner, Elinor following. The dinner was 
conducted with ceremonious stateliness, and, watching 
the high-bred courtesy of my host’s manner, I under- 
stood in what school his daughter had acquired that 
grace and repose which had been at once the envy and 
the despair of Madame Miniver’s young ladies. 

Just here I begin to feel that I have undertaken a 
hopeless task. I have succeeded, possibly, in convey- 
ing to you the impression of a home, fantastic but 
superb, — of my stately host, and the friend whom I 
loved so well. So far words have served me ; but now 
they begin to seem vague and pointless. They will 
not render the subtile shades of that midsummer expe- 
rience. I cannot tell you the strange spell which drew 
me toward Reginald O’Connor. Fascination does not 
at all express it, — it was at once finer and stronger. 
Sympathy, magnetism, psychological attraction, — 
choose your own term. I only know that I felt, in 
my very soul, that I had met the one man in the uni- 
verse whose power over me was positive as fate. 

I did not deceive myself about him in the least. 


LITTLE GIBRALTAR. 


217 


I knew he was not wiser, or grander, or nobler than 
other men, — not wise or grand, perhaps, in any high 
sense at all. But, just such as he was, I felt as if I 
would rather have been loved by him, and die, than be 
the living darling of any other man. All the time, too, 
there was the sense of entire hopelessness, — the belief 
that he had loved as he would never love again, — 
that Leoline dead was more to him than the whole 
living world. We passed all the days together, — we 
three, — riding, driving, rowing; and, after a while, 
I sitting for my portrait, and Col. O’Connor painting it. 
It was after one of these sittings that Elinor said to 
me, — 

“ Aria, I think my father is beginning to love you. 
I have never seen him as he is now before. If he were 
not too old for you, — if you could care for him, — I 
think it might be to him like the elixir of life. To 
me, you know what it would be to have you with me 
always.” 

“You deceive yourself,” I answered, with forced 
composure. “You have told me the effect which your 
mother’s loss had on him, and how his whole life since 
has been full of nothing but her memory. He will 
never love again.” 

She looked at me curiously. I knew that my face 
was turning crimson under her gaze. She sprang up 
and kissed me with impulsive fondness. 

“ My darling,” she cried, “ I believe that you could 
love him ! With you the mistress of Little Gibraltar 
what a different thing life would be to me.” 

10 


218 


SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS. 


She went out without giving me time to answer h^r ; 
but after that she left me more alone with her father. 

He painted on at my portrait, and grew absorbed in 
his task. He was never satisfied, — he said my face 
changed with every change of my moods. He made 
me give him sitting after sitting. To-day he deepened 
the eyes, to-morrow he altered a wave in the hair, or 
changed a curve of the lashes. I began to believe that 
I was beautiful, as I saw myself glowing, a radiant 
vision upon his canvas. One day he threw down his 
brush. It was the week before we were to go back to 
Madame Miniver. He cried, with a sort of suppressed 
passion, — 

“It does not suit me. Aria; it never will. You must 
give me yourself., Aria, child, darling ” — 

He stopped as suddenly as if an unseen hand, cold 
with the chill of the grave had been laid upon his 
lips. His face turned white. 

« Forgive me,” he said, “ I must go.” 

He went from the room. I remembered what Elinor 
had told me, — that sometimes his dead wife called 
him, and he went out to keep with her a ghostly tryst. 
I believed that he had gone now in obedience to some 
such summons. I sat on where he left me. I did not 
dare to think what I was doing. I had a vague 
feeling, which I would not suflTer to crystallize into a 
thought, that there was a rivalry between me and his 
dead bride for his love. Had not I a right to win ? I 
remembered what Elinor had said. I believed that he 
would be better and happier with a warm, living love, 


LITTLE GIBRALTAR. 


219 


in place of this haunting, ghostly memory. But I knew 
not which would triumph ; I could only wait. At last 
I heard the door open, and he came to me softly in the 
gathering twilight. 

“ Aria,” he said, “ I love you. It is Heaven’s own 
truth, and I have a right to tell it to you. But I am 
not free to ask you to be my wife, — I do not know 
that I ever shall be. I promised Elinor’s mother, when 
she was dying, that I would never marry again. I am 
bound by my vow unless she releases me from it. I 
thought then. Heaven knows, that it would be easy 
enough to keep. I loved her so well that I fancied 
there was no danger of my loving any one else. I 
should least of all have feared loving you, — you, yet 
in your girlhood, and my daughter’s friend. But it was 
curious the charm you had for me from the very first. 
As we stood in the drawing-room that first night a 
whisper came to me, which I knew was Leoline’s 
warning, ‘ Beware ! ’ To-day, when I began to speak 
to you, I heard her voice again, — a sudden, imperious 
call, which I could not resist. I went out and saw her, 
as I always see her, walking to and fro upon the 
}>alcony, with her baby, a little white snow-flake, in 
her arms. Aria, I begged her, as I would beg for my 
life, to release me from that vow. She could have 
answered me, — she has spoken to me often enough, — 
but she only looked at me, with eyes full of reproachful 
pain, and her lips uttered no word.” 

I remembered the whisper which I too had heard, 
that first night, and wondered that I had not also 


220 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


heard to-day the voice which summoned him. Perhaps 
that first warning had been meant for me as well as 
him; but I had not heeded it. A ghostly, numbing 
terror began to creep over me. I sat still and did not 
answer him. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, Aria, speak to me one word,” 
he said, coming close to me. “ Am I a man or a mon- 
ster? I loved Leoline. She had a right to my con- 
stancy ; and yet, God knows, I love you. Oh, why did 
you come here ? ” 

“ I was going next week, — I will go to-morrow.” 

The words seemed to drop from my lips against 
my will. They sounded cold and hard. I felt as if 
life and sense were failing me. In a moment CoL 
O’Connor was kneeling beside me. 

^'‘DorUt look at me so, Aria. You are turning to 
stone before my eyes. Don’t hate me, — it is enough 
that I must hate and scorn myself, — that I, who 
thought my honor stainless, must live to know that I 
have broken at least the spirit of my vow. And yet, 
am I to blame? I could not help loving you. But 
I am old and sad, — I could never have won a young, 
fresh heart like yours.” 

The misery in his voice touched me indescribably. 
It was like the turning of a weapon in a wound. It 
tortured me into a sense of keen life, and gave me 
power to speak. 

“ I don’t blame you,” I said. “ It was fate. But I 
could have loved you. It was a vain dream. Let us 
forget it and live.” 


LITTLE GIBBALTAR. 


221 


“ No, I am ready to curse fate and die ” 

He looked into my eyes. 

“Aria, this is bitterness beyond what a man can 
bear, — to feel my happiness so near, and yet so out of 
reach, — to love you, to feel that I could win your love, 
and yet to renounce you.” 

He bent forward and drew me with firm hands close 
to him. I felt his lips on mine for one moment, — fond, 
quivering, thrilling to the centre of my being. Then 
he released me. 

“There, Aria, that is all. Forgive me if you can. 
You will not hate me, I know. You shall not go back 
until the time comes ; but you need not see me again 
after to-night. We should never have met, or we 
should have met in some other sphere. Well, child, it 
is possible to bear most things. Come, we cannot 
escape life. We must go to dinner.” 

At the table a strange gayety seemed to possess him. 
He ate nothing, but he covered his lack of appetite and 
mine with quip and badinage and brilliant turns of 
thought. 

After dinner he went into the library to look over the 
evening mail, and presently sent for Elinor. 

She was with him a few moments and then came back. 
She looked me in the eyes like an inquisitor as she said : 

“ Papa has received a letter which will take him away 
from home to-morrow morning ; we shall probably have 
to leave without seeing him again.” 

I expressed my regrets courteously, but I made no 
sign, nor did she ask me any questions. 


222 


t^OME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


We went back to school. What a mockery it seemed 
to me, with girlhood lying as far behind me as infancy. 
My thoughts ran tumultuously in one channel. I cared 
for none of the old delights or ambitions. I could not 
study. I had learned a lesson which swallowed up all 
others, as did Aaron’s rod the rods of the Egyptians. 

In the midst of the term an epoch came which gave 
me independence, — my twenty-first birthday. I was 
three years older than Elinor, — late in finishing my 
studies, as, on account of my extreme delicacy in child- 
hood, I had been late in commencing them. I was an 
orphan, and at twenty-one I became mistress of myself 
and my fortune. I should have left Madame Miniver’s, 
but I had no tie anywhere so strong as the one which 
bound me to Elinor, and I staid on for her sake. 

Early in December she came to my room with a let- 
ter in her hand. 

“ Aria,’^ she said, “ I am summoned home. My father 
is failing mysteriously. He wants me with him, and he 
says, ‘ Tell Aria that, for her own sake, I must not . ask 
her to come, though her presence would be the greatest 
comfort.’ ” 

What to me was “ my own sake ” in comparison with 
his comfort ? What if I suffered a pang or two more ? 
The worst suffering of all would be to know afterward 
that he had missed me. I went with Elinor. 

We got there in time to see the last of him whom 
we both loved so well. We watched beside him night 
and day for three days, and then, in the wild winter 
midnight, “he heard the angels call.” 


LITTLE 0 IBB ALTAR, 


223 


lie had been speaking calmly enough about his 
jjlans. 

“ I have given Little Gibraltar to Aria,” he said to 
Elinor, as she bent over him. “You will be rich 
enough without it, and you would not care to live 
here. It will have a deeper worth, a different signifi- 
cance for her.” 

Then he sent her from the room, on some pretext, 
and talked to me. 

“ It is all a mystery,” he said, “ strange as sad. Can 
a man love two women ? I loved her. Heaven knows 
it, and my long, solitary years since her death have 
borne witness to it. And yet, if it be not love for you 
that is wasting my life away, what is it? We shall 
understand it all in the next world, I think. 

“ She has come to me often since last summer. She 
waits for me always on the balcony outside, and I 
know she is there by the tune with which she hushes 
the baby on her breast, — always the same tune, — one 
she used to sing to me in other days. I go out when I 
hear it, and meet the sad upbraiding of her eyes. But 
she has never spoken to me since that day. I have 
pleaded a hundred times for release from my vow, but 
her lips will never open. I wonder if she will turn from 
me with horror in her eyes in the world of spirits ; or 
whether, for her baby’s father, there will be pity and 
forgiveness? Wrong or right, I could not help loving 
you ; it was my fate.” 

I could not answer him, but I bent and pressed my 
lips to his mouth. How, with him floating away from 


224 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS, 


me on the unknown sea, I felt no scruples. But at the 
moment my lips touched his I heard, as distinctly as I 
ever heard any sound in my life, a strain of wild, sweet 
music, — a tune I had never heard before. His eye 
kindled with recognition as he caught the sound, and 
he tried to rise. I turned to listen to Elinor, who was 
opening the door. 

Aria, the tide is going out,” she said. 

I looked back to the bed, and answered her, — 

“ He has gone out with it.” 

And we heard the music, both of us, fainter, lower, 
farther and farther away, until its sweetness died on the 
waiting air. 

Believe my story or doubt it, — it does not matter, 
I have told it because some force outside of myself 
seemed to constrain me. I have never loved again, — 
it does not seem to me that I ever shall. You see me 
in the winter as the world sees me, gay and careless ; 
but I go every summer to Little Gibraltar and dream 
over again the old, passionate, troubled dream. Elinor 
comes, too, sometimes, with her husband and her 
children; but I like best to be alone with the dead 
days in that nook haunted by memory, where rise the 
fantastic turrets toward which the sea climbs eternally, 
where the white walls glitter, and the wind blows all 
the day, and every day, from the east toward the set- 
ting sun. 


HOUSEHOLD GODS. 


I T would be hard to imagine any young, strong, 
healthy woman more apparently helpless than was 
Marian Eyre after her father’s death. She looked her 
affairs in the face the day after his funeral, and con- 
fessed to herself this fact. 

Her mother had been dead so long that she could 
scarcely remember her ; and during all the years since 
she had lived with her father, and been educated by 
him, both living and educating going on in the desul- 
tory, inconsequent, fragmentary manner in which a 
man who was half saint and half Bohemian and wholly 
dreamer, would be likely to conduct them. As to 
morals, St. Anthony himself was no purer than Regi- 
nald Eyre. His Bohemianism was only' the outgrowth 
of his restlessness. It suited him to breakfast to-day 
with the dawning, and climb an Alp before sunset; to 
lie in bed to-morrow till noon, and sup c6ffee as 
lazily as a Turk in his Oriental-looking dressing- 
gown. 

He liked to winter one year in Rome, another in 
Florence, and a third in Venice, web-footed, melan- 
10 * 


o 


226 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


choly, and princely. Paris he did not much affect. 
Life there was too bustling, too melodramatic. The 
French recklessness and laisser-faire were of quite an- 
other kind from his own, and therefore did not suit him. 
But half over Europe he and Marian had wandered to- 
gether. She had learned languages from hearing them 
spoken ; and art-history from studying among galleries 
and ruins. This wandering, beauty-worshipping life 
suited her, and made of her what she was, — just 
Marian. 

I would I could make you see the face of clear, 
healthy paleness ; the eyes which had caught the color 
of so many skies and moods, and never seemed twice 
the same; the sensitive, proud mouth; the head set 
like Diana’s, and as small and stately. She was her 
father’s idol as well as his companion, — the fair embod- 
iment for him of womanhood. He always saw, through 
her eyes, her mother’s soul ; and he had never loved 
any woman but those two. 

He had inherited quite a little fortune ; but after his 
wife died, and his wandering habits began to grow on 
him, he turned it all into an annuity, because its ordi- 
nary interest would not keep him and Marian in the 
roaming way that had grown to seem to him the only 
life he could endure. In every thing else his moral 
standard was of the highest ; so I will wait until I find 
a flawless soul, which has won by virtue of its own 
spotlessness a right to question, before I try to recon- 
cile for him his idleness with his conscience. In truth, 
I do not think the matter had evei troubled him. He 


HOUSEHOLD GODS, 


227 


believed himself to be educating Marian, and so doing 
his duty in his day and generation ; and perhaps he 
was. If he had sold salt and potatoes at home, and 
increased his banking account, would he have done 
more, or better? I am not casuist enough for such 
questions. 

His annuity, of course, was to end with his life ; but 
he had sufficient forethought for Marian to deny him- 
self many a lovely bit of wood-carving, many a choice 
old missal, many an antique, for which his soul longed, 
in order to insure that life heavily, and pay each year 
therefor a large percentage from his annuity, so that 
when they two could roam together among the won- 
ders of art and of nature no longer she would not want 
the means for making her life beautiful without him. 

At last they had come home to New York. 

Though they were far more familiar with half a dozen 
foreign towns, they always called New York home, 
because there Marian’s mother had died, and in an old 
down-town church-yard her dust lay blossoming into 
roses and pansies when the summer suns shone on her 
grave. They had always had a theory that they were 
coming back there to settle, when Marian’s education 
was completed. Now she was twenty-three ; but Mr. 
Eyre saw that his mission as educator might still be 
prolonged with advantage to her and ever fresh delight 
to himself ; so he compromised with the old theory by 
coming home for this one winter, intending to go back 
in the spring. 

They had plenty of cousins in New York, on whom 


228 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS, 


they had no especial claim ; but these Eyres and 
Livingstones and Brevoorts received them with much 
eagerness. They liked to see Marian at their parties. 
There was something unique and distinguished-looking 
about both her face and her toilets. The soft-falling 
Italian silks she wore, and the antique ornaments, suited 
her calm, proud face and her manner of graceful repose. 
But from none of these people could Reginald Eyre or 
his daughter have been willing to receive, or felt free 
to ask, any thing beyond this courtesy, which, after all, 
claimed more than it conferred. 

They had rooms at the St. Denis, — these two, — 
and had unpacked for their adornment whole trunks 
and boxes of treasures, — choice carvings in wood and 
ivory, illuminated missals, old line engravings by dead 
masters, cameos, coins, bronzes, and a few pictures, 
brightening the gray New York of mid- winter with 
glimpses of Italian heavens. 

Here, in the midst of this gay season, — in which, 
however, despite the gayety, Reginald Eyre was se- 
cretly homesick and restless, — he had been taken 
suddenly very ill. A few moments’ delay in the draw- 
ing up of their carriage, after they came out of the 
heated air of a large party, was the only discernible 
cause of an attack of pneumonia so severe that it 
terminated his life in a week, in spite of the best 
medical skill and the tenderest nursing. 

He died, as he had lived, like a dreamer : no thought 
of neglected opportunities or neglected work troubled 
his last hours. He spoke to Marian, in the few inter- 


HOUSEHOLD GODS. 


229 


vals his sharp pain allowed him, very tenderly ; but he 
gave her none of the traditional death-bed counsels and 
exhortations. 

“I think God has loved us, my darling,” he said 
once. “ I have missed nothing in life but your mother, 
and I shall find her now.” 

Marian was lifted out of herself by the calm expec- 
tation of his mood. She did not shed any tears over 
him, or utter any moans. Time enough for that in the 
long hours afterward. He saw her to the last, as he 
had loved to see her, with her fair, unstained face, her 
true, hopeful eyes. The last words he said to her, an 
hour before he died, were only, — 

“We have been good comrades, Marian. You will 
miss me in the old places, but not for long. Nothing is 
long that has its sure end. It seems but yesterday 
since I kissed your mother’s lips when she was dying.” 

Just at the last the pains of death shook him cruelly. 
He could not speak, and his only good-by to Marian 
was the clinging hold of his fingers upon her hand, 
which did not relax until those fingers stiffened and 
grew cold. 

The morning after his funeral Marian looked list- 
lessly into the paper. She had done every thing 
listlessly in the three days since her father died. 
Sometimes she thought her soul had gone out of her, 
and only her body remained, ruled by dull instinct 
and old habit. She unfolded the paper, and looked it 
over with no interest about what it might chance to 
contain, but simply because, it was her morning wont. 


230 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


On the second page an item caught her eye, and 
roused her. The office in which her father’s life was 
insured had failed, gone utterly to ruin. She under- 
stood her situation perfectly. She knew how resolute 
he had been in making this provision for her; how 
entirely it was her sole dependence. Her very first 
thought was one of profound thankfulness that he had 
been spared this blow ; that he had died without anxiety 
for her. The next was the question which has con- 
fronted so many other helpless women with its blind 
terror, — the problem society would find it well worth 
its while to aid them in solving, — what should she do? 

She loved music passionately, but she had never 
learned its theories ; poetry, but she had never written 
it; pictures, but she could not paint them; sculp- 
ture, but she had never thought of modelling. Of 
course teaching came to her mind for a moment, as it 
presents itself to* most women similarly circumstanced, 
but it seemed clear to her that she had no vocation 
for it, and there was no one thing she could have 
taught well enough to satisfy her conscience. Besides, 
the world was full of teachers already, to whom the 
calling belonged by right of possejssion. She would 
have shrunk, in any case, from entering their already 
overcrowded ranks. But what could she do ? 

She looked around her and reckoned up her worldly 
possessions. A few hundred dollars remained of their 
last quarter’s funds. Besides, she had two rooms full of 
carvings and pictures and bronzes, — a sort of museum 
of art. They had been selected, she knew, with taste 


HOUSEHOLD GODS. 


231 


which could not be challenged. They were rare, all 
of them, — some of them very valuable. If well sold, 
they ought to bring her a good deal ; but she had 
heard how ruinously such things were often sacrificed 
at auction. The commissions a regular dealer would 
require for disposing of them would be large, and 
that method of effecting their sale would be slow. 

At this moment an inspiration visited her. What if 
she should take a room and dispose of them herself? 
She understood art well enough to be sure that she 
could arrange them so as to show to the best advan- 
tage. She would need the countenance and assistance 
of one experienced saleswoman ; and while she was 
thus engaged in turning into available funds her own 
sole inheritance, she would be getting a little knowl- 
edge of trade, and might perhaps be able to find 
employment afterward in some picture store or art 
gallery. At any rate, there appeared this one step to 
take, this one beginning to be made, in answer to her 
problem, and doubtless the rest of its solution would 
come afterward. 

In this emergency she needed a fi:iend, and she ran 
over the list of her acquaintances, as she had previously 
that of her possessions. She could not apply to any of 
her hosts of more or less far removed cousins. Eyres 
and Livingstones and Brevoorts, one and all, held them- 
selves grandly above all trade of lesser degree than 
sending out ships to fetch home silks and velvets. 
Especially would they hold a woman’s hand so soilea 
by it that no floods could- make it clean. Her father’s 


232 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


friends liad been for the most part men as impractical 
as himself. But there was just one of them, a man of 
different type, to whom in this emergency her thoughts 
turned. So she sat down and wrote a note to Mr 
Nathaniel Upjohn, and that evening he answered it in 
person. 

He was a man of thirty-five, with no air of trying to 
be younger than that, no attempt to catch at the youth 
slipping for ever away from him ; but yet a man whom 
you would never associate with coming age; who 
seemed strong and resolute enough to stand still here 
in middle life for ever. He had made his own large 
fortune by his own hard work ; and yet he was not 
merely a worker. He liked whatever was best and 
worthiest in art and in literature, and these tastes had 
brought him acquainted with Marian’s father. 

I am telling too simple a story to require any dis- 
guises. I am quite willing you should understand that 
this middle-aged, busy, practical man was very much 
in love with Marian Eyre. In knowing so much, how- 
ever, you are wiser than she was, for she had not even 
suspected it. He had come to see them only occasion- 
ally, and then his conversations had been chiefiy with 
her father, though his eyes seldom lost sight of Marian. 
He had not meant to let her know what he felt for her 
at present, if ever. He thought himself removed from 
her by some subtile barriers which nothing in her man- 
ner had encouraged in him the slightest expectation of 
surmounting. But when her note came to him, when 
he understood by it that she would allow him — him of 


HOUSEHOLD GODS, 


233 


all others — to go to her in this time of her great 
sorrow, a wild, sweet hope sprang to life in his heart, 
which, however, almost her first words dispelled. 

She came into the room in her deep mourning gar- 
ments, a pale, sad creature, from whose face all the 
brightness seemed gone, but who had never been so 
lovely in his eyes at her brightest and her best. She 
gave him her hand, but there was no response in it to , 
his tender clasp. She looked at him, but she did not 
seem to see him. 

She began at once upon the business on which she 
had desired his opinion, and told him her wishes in a 
few direct sentences, as if she had arranged beforehand 
what she would say, and was afraid to trust herself to 
utter an unnecessary word. In five minutes he under- 
stood her position. 

“That I should do something,” she said, in con- 
clusion, “ you perceive to be a simple necessity. That 
I should do this very thing for a beginning, appears to 
me clearly for the best ; and I sent for you because I 
knew no one else so capable of giving me good, sound, 
practical advice. I must have a suitable salesroom, 
and a proper clerk or assistant, and I suppose there are 
some means which I ought to take to bring myself, or 
rather my possessions, to the knowledge of the public. 
Can you put me in the way of all this ? ” 

“If necessary, I suppose I can; but it seems to me 
there must be something else for you to do. I do not 
want to see the treasures my old friend collected with 
such loving patience scattered to the four winds.” 


234 


SOME WOMEN ^S HEARTS. 


‘‘ That will probably be no more hard for you than 
for me,” Marian said, with a petulance for which she 
condemned herself the next moment. “Forgive me, 
but I have thought it over on all sides. It seems to 
me it is the only thing I can do ; and we shall not 
make it any easier by lingering over it. You perceive 
that I could not even afford to hire a room in which to 
keep my possessions, therefore I must part with them. 
Will you help me ? ” 

Some words came to his lips then which he had not 
meant to speak. He said them hurriedly. 

“ I wish, Marian, that you would let me help you to 
some purpose.^ I did not mean to tell you, for you 
have given me no encouragement, but I love you 
deeply and dearly ; and if you could love me, and let 
your future be my care, you would be spared all this, 
which it is misery to me to see you suffer.” 

“I am no Circassian girl,” Marian said proudly; 
“have you had any reason to think I could be 
bought ? ” 

Her face was kindled now, — aflame with pride and 
spirit. Her cheeks glowed, her wide eyes held scornful 
meaning. 

“Did I try to buy you?” he asked, with a gentleness 
which disarmed her pride. “ I said if you could love 
me. Love is no matter of bargain and sale ; but I 
believe I have realized from the first how vain my hope 
was. I will try to help you, in your own way, since 
you cannot let me help you in mine. I must have 
a little time, however, to think how it can best be 


HOUSEHOLD GODS. 


235 


done. So, if you please, 1 will go away now, and either 
come or write to you to-morrow evening.” 

“ I do not deserve that you should be so kind,” she 
said, very humbly, as he got up to go. “ I know that 
you have done me great honor; but you can hardly 
understand how determined I am to help myself. The 
life I look forward to has for me no especial terrors, 
while to marry a man because I was destitute and he 
pitied me would be in my eyes a crime.” 

“ It would be no less than that in mine. If you had 
loved me, you would not have misunderstood me. If I 
had not loved you first, I should not have dared to pity 
you. But I had no right to trouble you with my 
dreams. Will you forgive me, and let me be your 
friend ? ” 

“ If you will honor me so far. Perhaps you will be 
my only one ; but that I shall not mind.” 

Then Mr. Nathaniel Upjohn went away, and Marian 
was left, as she had chosen to be, alone ; but her heart 
was very lonely and desolate indeed, as she sat there 
among her relics. 

The next day she waited anxiously for news from Mr. 
Upjohn. The afternoon post brought her two letters* 
The first one, bearing Mrs. Gordon Livingstone’s scarlet 
and gilt monogram, she threw aside, and broke open 
the other, directed in a strong, compact, business hand, 
which she felt sure was that of her father’s friend. 

It contained a proposition, the result, as Mr. Upjohn 
wrote, of earnest deliberation upon her matters. He 
saw, with her, that the articles of virtu in her posses- 


236 


SOME WOMENS B HEARTS. 


sion must be sold, though he was more and more con- 
Aunced that she herself was not the one to sell them ; 
while he entirely agreed with her as to the disadvan- 
tages which would attend intrusting the matter to a 
regular fine-arts dealer. But, in a building of his own, 
on Broadway, were two vacant rooms. Of the larger 
he proposed to make a storeroom, for the reception of 
the articles en masse^ while the other was to be taste- 
fully arranged as a salesroom, the things in it to be few 
in number, in order that they might be advantageously 
placed, while from time to time, as articles were sold, 
the vacancies could be filled from the other room. He 
had in his employ, moreover, and could well spare in her 
service, precisely the right person for a salesman, while 
he himself would undertake the necessary steps for 
bringing the sale to the knowledge of the public; which 
last matter, he thought, should be managed in a very 
quiet manner, as the patronage of half a dozen art 
connoisseurs was worth more than that of a hundred 
promiscuous buyers. As for the expenses of this ar- 
rangement, of course they would be paid from the pro- 
ceeds ; he would not even venture to offer his rooms 
rent free, but Miss Eyre might depend on being charged 
only the exact cost which was incurred, and wou^d be 
saved from all extortion in the way of commissions. 
He made bold not only to hope, but to urge, that this 
plan which he had proposed might be resolved upon, 
since it seemed to him the only one by which she could 
at once fitly and advantageously accomplish her pur- 
pose. 


HOUSEHOLD GODS. 


237 


The letter was somewhat of a surprise to Marian, — 
it was at once so cool and so kind, so simple and so 
business-like. Who would think that last night this 
man had been laying his heart at her feet ? If there 
had been the least touch of love-making in his commu- 
nication, however, it is very certain that she would have 
rejected his proposition. As it was, she began at once 
to consider it favorably. It is possible that all the time 
she had secretly shrunk from putting herself before the 
public in this unaccustomed way ; at any rate she was 
not at all sorry to be relieved from it, and to feel that 
her interests were to be so thoroughly well represented 
without her aid. 

Having reached this conclusion, she opened Mrs. Gor- 
don Livingstone’s scented epistle. It was the letter of 
a female diplomat. It began with condolences on the 
death of Marian’s father, and passed to sympathy in the 
loss of Marian’s fortune. But for this latter knowledge, 
she said, she would not have ventured to intrude, even 
by letter, upon her kinswoman in these first days of her 
grief. As it was, she wrote at once, because she felt 
impelled to open heart and home to her as a mother. 
Would Marian come? 

Then followed some rose-colored sentences about ad- 
miration and appreciation, the pleasure she should ex- 
pect from her young relative’s society ; and then came 
the true gist of the letter. She understood so well 
dear Marian’s pride and sensitiveness that she had de- 
termined to bait her proposition with an opportunity 
for her cousin to make herself useful. Her children 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


were provided with a good governess and competent 
masters ; but if Marian would oversee their practicing a 
little, and talk French with them enough to impart to 
them her own perfect accent, she could relieve herself 
twice over from any unnecessary sense of obligation, 
and feel that she made Mrs. Livingstone very greatly 
her debtor. 

A little smile of amusement crossed Marian’s face. 
She was not wanting in shrewdness, and though it had 
not before occurred to her at what a premium sucn ac- 
quirements as her own in music and languages might 
be held, even unaccompanied by the gift or the inclina- 
tion to teach regularly, she perceived it clearly now, 
through the flowery eloquence of Mrs. Livingstone’s 
periods. This benign kinswoman of hers was not one 
to profier benefits without having first made certain of 
her quid pro quo ; so, as after all the proposition suited 
her, she felt no hesitation about availing herself of it. 

She wrote a letter of acceptance, graceful and lady- 
like ; grateful, too, but frosted with a little reserve and 
dignity. As her rooms were engaged up to the end of 
the month she preferred to remain in them until then. 
This would give her time to superintend the removal 
of her efiects, and to make her preparations. 

By the same mail she sent her reply to Mr. Upjohn, 
cordially thanking him, and putting her business mat- 
ters unreservedly into his hands. 

During the fortnight which followed she bore herself 
most bravely. All her father’s cherished treasures — 
all the lovely pictures, and bronzes, and vases, and 


HOUSEHOLD GODS. 


2S9 


terra-cottas which they had collected with such pleas- 
ure and pride during their happy, wandering years to- 
gether — were packed under her supervision, loaded 
into commonplace vans, and carried off before her 
eyes ; and if she shed a tear over them, only Heaven 
and silence knew it. 

During this process of removal she saw Mr. Upjohn 
frequently, and always in the aspect of her father’s 
friend, — a middle-aged man, kind, quiet, thoughtful, 
and somewhat formal. At times she almost believed 
that she had only dreamed that this man once asked 
her to be his wdfe. The contradiction between those 
few strange mo^lents when he had startled her with his 
love, and these cool, well-balanced interviews since, 
puzzled her for a time, until she gave the puzzle up, 
only too thankful to find in Mr. Upjohn what he was, 
— her one true, strong, faithful friend, in this time when 
she needed friends so much. 

At length the whole thing was over. The last house- 
hold god was gone, — not even a pensive Psyche or a 
winged Hope was left to bear her company. She had 
thanked Mr. Upjohn, and given him her new address, 
where she asked him to call and report progress ; settled 
all her bills, and still she had half an hour before the 
time appointed for Mrs. Livingstone’s carriage to come 
for her. She had meant to avoid this, and had lingered 
over her closing tasks that she might not have time to 
think. But still a space remained, and silence and 
memory confronted her, and would have their will of 
her. 


240 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


It was a sharp wrench to go out of these rooms 
which she had shared with her dead, — where she had 
heard his last words, and kissed the cold lips when 
they could speak no more. She made no outcry, — 
why should she? Who was there to care for her 
mourning, or to comfort her ? But perchance her own 
true dead, “ from the house of the pale-faced images,” 
heard the wail which only her soul uttered, and by 
some celestial mystery, of us uncomprehended, brought 
her comfort. 

When the carriage came at last, that fair, calm face 
of hers bore no trace of conflict. She went quietly 
down the stairs, her long, soft, mourning robes trailing 
after her, and was greeted cordially by Mrs. Living- 
stone, who sat in the coupe. So her new life began. 

If Mrs. Livingstone was prepared for any efiusion of 
grief on Marian’s part, and sympathy on her own, she 
was certainly disappointed. Miss Eyre was not one to 
wear her sorrow upon her sleeve, or shed her tears in 
company. She was quiet and graceful and dignifled as 
ever. The most expansive of women could have found 
no excuse for falling upon her neck and weeping over 
her. So they made talk about indifierent matters, as 
people do in society, and by the time they had reached 
Murray Hill their further attitude toward each other 
was mutually w’ell understood. 

With infinite tact Marian slipped into her place in the 
household. She never failed to perform conscientiously 
the duties which could^ justly be expected from her; 
but also she never put herself for a moment in the po- 


HOUSEHOLD OODS. 241 

* 

sltion of protegee. Mrs. Livingstone understood clearly 
that she was securing for her growing daughters advan- 
tages in certain directions such as she could procure for 
them in no other way, but she also knew perfectly well 
that Miss Eyre would remain under her roof no longer 
than the position was made agreeable to her. 

Agreeable in a certain way it was at present, — as 
much so, at any rate, as any home among unloving 
strangers could be made to this proud, tender girl, who 
had known nothing but love all her life, for whom the 
heart of her dead. had been always so true and so warm. 
Her grief never came to her lips in words, or overflowed 
her eyelids, but there were times when the orphaned 
heart rent the very heavens with cries which no human 
ear heard, and reached out into the infinite spaces as if 
by the very force of its desire it could wrench back 
from them the dear old love. 

Soon Lent began, — the cessation of parties and 
operas, at which Marian, in her deep mourning gar- 
ments, had not assisted, and the inauguration of quiet, 
small dinners and high teas. At these lesser gatherings 
Miss Eyre was present ; and the admiration of more 
than one man made Mrs. Livingstone fear lest she might 
possibly lose her fair inmate unfortunately soon ; until, 
seeing the cold sweetness with which all advances and 
attentions were alike received, this fear gave place to a 
new one. 

Tom Livingstone was the darling of his mother’s 
heart, and the pride of her eyes ; and Tom Livingstone 
was coming home in June. The only son among a 
11 


p 


242 SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 

« 

household of girls, he had been made a sort of demi- 
god in the home circle, and had borne his honors loftily, 
after the manner of men. There were good things about 
him certainly, though he was not the hero into which 
his feminine worshippers had exalted him. He was 
handsome, in that young, haughty, unchecked manhood 
of his. He had no vices. Culture had made the most 
of a mind naturally shrewd and sensible rather than 
highly intellectual. Travel had develojDed his taste and 
stimulated his imagination, until really there was a 
good deal of charm about Tom Livingstone. 

His mother remembered with a little secret dismay 
that June was near at hand, and that he had met the 
Eyres in Florence two years ago, and written home 
some very extravagant letters about Marian. What 
would be the result when he came back and found this 
“ rare, pale maiden ” domesticated under his own roof? 
She gave this girl, whom she had seen letting brilliant 
opportunities slip by her so coolly, credit for disinter- 
estedness. If she smiled on Tom it would be because 
she loved him ; but what girl could help loving Tom if 
he tried to make her? What if he should try ? What 
could be done or said ? Miss Eyre was a gentlewoman, 
— as well born and bred as any Livingstone of them 
all, — his cousin by too many removes, moreover, to 
have the ghost of an objection conjured out of the 
relationship. 

She knew by experience that Tom was ill to drive ; 
and she knew also that he must marry money, or make 
a vast social descent from the family scale of living 


HOUSEHOLD GODS, 


243 


Gordon Livingtone’s million, divided into eight or 
nine portions, could not make any of his heirs rich, 
as Mrs. Livingstone was accustomed to reckon riches. 
Tom must mate money with money, or come down in 
the world grievously. She perceived that she had 
done a very indiscreet thing in setting a snare for his 
feet with this pretty, portionless temptation ; but she 
did not so clearly see her way out of the position, so she 
waited for the future with what patience she could, and 
a daily prayer that Miss Eyre’s heart might be touched 
by some one else before the conquering hero came. 

Marian herself, meantime, went on with, her life 
patiently but wearily, and quite unconscious of these 
speculations about her. This living without the cease- 
less tenderness which had been her daily food so long 
begat a hunger of the heart so intense that it seemed 
to her sometimes as if it could not be borne ; but she 
was never once tempted by it to feed on the husks of a 
love for which her own heart held no response, which 
attracted her only by what it promised, though of such 
opportunities she had more than one. But her lone- 
liness wrought into her manner something gentler and 
more appealing than she was aware. 

Mr. Upjohn felt this change on the occasions when 
he called to render an account of his stewardship, 
though he did not gather from it any hope. He never 
thought of trying to persuade her to revoke his sen- 
tence, which he had so well understood to be final. Pos- 
sibly a bolder and more self-confident man might have 
caught a hint from her mood, and stormed her heart 


244 


SOME WOMENS S HEARTS. 


into his power; but perhaps Mr. Upjohn might not, 
after all, have cared to hold what he had been forced 
to win by storm. It was, however, certain that she 
was strongly drawn toward him in these interviews, 
though by no attempts of his own. He was so true, 
wherB all else seemed hollow; so earnest, where all 
others seemed formal ; so devoted to her interests, that 
she felt at last that the man whom she had begun 
by regarding simply as her father’s friend had become 
now her own personal property, — only her friend, it 
is true, but at the same time her only friend. 

He had certainly met with excellent success in her 
service. Week after week substantial sums of money 
were transferred to her banking account, as one rare 
and costly article of her father’s collection after another 
was disposed of at a just and generous valuation. 
What means he took to bring about these sales, or 
who purchased the articles, she never inquired. Hav- 
ing once given the matter into his hands, she cared to 
hear no particulars, and she never once went to the 
salesrooms. Having once gone through the parting with 
these household gods of hers, she did not care to renew 
the pain. 

In June the family went to their summer home on 
the North River ; and soon after this Tom came. 
There were a good many fine traits in his character. 
He was direct, straightforward, honorable, and in ear- 
nest, though he was no fiower of knighthood, no 
miracle of constancy. If he loved a woman, and his 
love were returned, it was in him to love long and 


HOUSEHOLD GODS. 


245 


well; but he would never waste much time in despair 
for the fair woman who was not fair for him. Neither 
himself nor his kindred, however, had suspected this 
healthy, elastic, recuperative power of his healthy, 
elastic nature. He was just a hearty, generous, well- 
cultured American gentleman, — as fine a type, too, 
when thorough-bred, as one is likely to find, — clear 
eyed, quick-witted, and courteous. 

He was about Marian’s age, familiar with hei 
best-loved haunts in the Old World, and an old ac- 
quaintance in the days when she had been happiest. It 
was very natural that his coming should give her pleas- 
ure, and she showed it in the frankest, most unreserved 
way. Talking with him, she felt herself more at home 
than she had been before since her father’s death. 
She brightened into her own softly radiant self, — a fas- 
cinating creature, with her pure, proud face, her red, 
smiling lips, her dusky, drooping hair, and the eyes 
which changed with every thought, took a new color 
with every mood. 

The young hero in Panama hat and Magenta neck- 
tie lowered his colors before her. She had swayed his 
fancy curiously in their few meetings in the old days, 
and he had never forgotten her. But now her graver 
sweetness stole into his heart, and he was ready to ofier 
her the half of his kingdom. 

She had been so used in her father’s time to cordial 
friendship and fi’ee companionship with men, — friend- 
ship touched often with chivalry, but never warming 
into love, — that she went on, unconsciously enough, in 


246 


SOME WOMEN-^S HEARTS. 


this path along which young Livingstone was gallantly 
leading her. They rode and drove together, or passed 
long summer twilights hanging in a boat ’twixt crimson 
sky and crimson river, and Marian had not enough of 
ordinary young-ladyhood about her to guess where it 
all was tending. 

Quite unintentionally, it was Mrs. Livingstone who 
opened her eyes. Going one day past the door of 
that lady’s morning-room she heard the words : — 

‘‘ It is true that Marian is all which you say, but it 
is equally true that you cannot afford the luxury of 
marrying her.” 

She hurried on instantly, with glowing cheeks. It 
was all plain now. She had been blind. Tom loved 
her, and had been trying to let her see it, and taking 
encouragement from her frank, free manner, while she 
had never once guessed his meaning. She smiled a 
little over Mrs. Livingstone’s notions of poverty. To 
say nothing of the hundred thousand likely to come by 
and by, Tom had fifty thousand of his own, now ; and 
on an income less than that would yield what happy 
years of pleasant wandering she and her father had 
known. If she loved him, certainly his mother’s op- 
position, based solely on the question of finances, 
would not deter her from marrying him, or feeling that 
he had a right to please himself The question became 
at once whether she might, could, would, or should 
love him, — a potential of which the indicative was 
hard to determine. She really did not know, herself. 
If you, my reader, are so clear-headed, so subtile in 


HOUSEHOLD GODS, 


247 


your intuitions, that you could never be in doubt 
about such a matter for a moment, turn compassion- 
ately this leaf which reveals to you Marian in her 
indecision, her poverty of self-knowledge ; but, for my 
part, I think most girls who have never had an accepted 
lover, or been accustomed to speculate about love and 
marriage, would have an epoch of similar uncertainty 
at the instant when a most agreeable, eligible, and 
altogether unexceptionable friend should stand before 
them suddenly transformed into an expectant suitor. 

That night the whole story of Tom’s hopes and 
fears came out. He took courage, perhaps, from a new 
shyness in Marian’s manner. At any rate, he told her 
how dear she was and always must be, and then waited 
for her answer. 

“ I am portionless,” she said, gravely. If there were 
no question about any thing else, I think your family 
would not approve the marriage for that reason.” 

“ They would get over that,” he protested, eagerly. 
“They all think yon are perfection. They only fear 
that I am too good-for-nothing a fellow to help myself, 
and not well enough off to make you comfortable. 
But I could do any thing, with you for my inspiration ; 
and in this one greatest thing of my life I must please 
myself. If you can love me, Marian, nothing else is 
wanting.” 

She looked at him, — his handsome, eager face so 
full of longing tenderness for her, so lonely, so sorely 
needing it, — young, strong, fond, ready to do and 
dare for her sake. Surely she must love him, — surely 


248 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


this thrill at her heart was love. But — was it? 
Marian was romantic; that is to say, she had high 
ideals. Love to her meant a grand, heroic something, 
which would be strong and steadfast through life, and 
outlast death. Would all her skies be dark, she asked 
herself, her days empty, if the shining of Tom Living- 
stone’s eyes were quenched ? W as he so much to her 
that without him the rest of life would be barren ? 
Her heart uttered no affirmative, and yet she had been 
accustomed to think that this and nothing less than 
this was love. The “Yes” which had almost sprung 
to her lips shrank back again, and she said, instead, 
very humbly : — 

“ I dare not answer yon, for I do not know myself. 
It seems to me that in marriage there is no half-way. 
One must be ineffably happy or ineffably miserable. I 
would not trust myself to be any man’s wife unless 
I was sure, beyond a question, that I loved him with 
all my being. I cannot tell whether I could ever love 
you like that, for I never thought of you, until to-day, 
as other than my pleasantest of friends.” 

He ventured on no prayers or protestations, for the 
quiet solemnity of her mood awed him. The matter 
which she looked at with such serious eyes took on 
new sacredness for him. He dared not be responsible 
for this woman’s happiness, unless indeed she could 
love him so entirely that there would be no doubt 
about his making it. So he told her, gravely and 
gently, that he would wait for her to understand her- 
self ; and though, whatever her decision might be, he 


HOUSEHOLD GODS. 


249 


must always love her, he would never blame her 
or accuse her of having held out to him any false 
hopes. 

Then they sat silent in the evening stillness. He 
had hoped to have that graceful head of hers upon his 
shoulder, to kiss the serious, smiling lips of his prom- 
ised wife, to be happy in her sweet and frankly given 
love. Instead, he sat a little apart from her side, with 
a distance which seemed like the sweep of eternity 
between their souls. W ould he ever come more near ? 

In the weeks that followed Marian grew thin with 
anxiety. She meant to do right, at whatever cost; 
but it was so hard to know what right was, to evolve 
certainty from the chaos of her emotions. There was 
so much to incline her heart toward him in his hand- 
some, graceful, courageous youth, in his ardent yet 
reverent devotion to herself. Sometimes she thought 
she could ask no more ; but slowly a conviction 
grew on her that in him was not the strength on 
which she longed to lean. She might be his inspira- 
tion, as he said, — he never could be hers. She 

must look at him with level eyes, and it was in her 
nature to long to look up. The daughter of Reginald 
Eyre, “Puritan Bohemian,” was not likely to have 
any religious cant about her; but she had strong 
spiritual needs. A steadfast sense of personal respon- 
sibility to a personal God underlaid her life and made 
it solemn. Tom Livingstone was worthy of a better 
love than hers, she was ready to grant ; but, when she 
began to think of seeking her rest and shelter in him for 
11 * 


250 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


ever, she discovered that that gallant, generous heart 
of his lacked something without which she could never 
be satisfied. 

At last she told him so, with that sad tenderness a 
good woman always feels for the man who has loved her 
in vain. 

True to his promise, he accepted her decision, and 
held her blameless. He only said once, with despair in 
his eyes : — 

“ If you could but have loved me, O Marian ! ” 

And she answered, in a low voice, which seemed to 
him sadder than any wail : — 

“ Oh, if I could ! Don’t you see how desolate I am ? ” 

If the family had known any thing of this probation 
and its results they never alluded to it before Marian ; 
but Mrs. Livingstone’s manner was most cordially gra- 
cious just after this final decision ; though she made only 
feeble attempts to combat Miss Eyre’s resolution to go 
back to Hew York early in September and go into 
lodgings. Marian offered no explanations, — she was 
not addicted to them, — she merely announced that she 
felt it desirable to make different arrangements for the 
next winter, and must go early to town in order to 
perfect them. 

Then she wrote to Mr. Upjohn. Somehow in every 
difficulty it seemed very natural to turn to him, — he 
was so strong and so self-reliant, so eminently to be relied 
upon. She felt no hesitation about asking him to secure 
her suitable apartments, — a little parlor and sleeping- 
room in some quiet and not too expensive boarding-house. 


HOUSEHOLD OODS, 


251 


He had managed her business matters so admirably that 
she had quite a little provision for the future, and could 
afford herself a space of leisure in which to map out 
that future to her liking. She had somewhat changed 
her ideas about teaching. She thought now that she 
could without difficulty make up from among her ac- 
quaintances a class of young ladies who had finished 
school, but who would be glad to read the modern Ian 
guages under her tuition ; and she much preferred the 
independence this course offered to a longer residence 
beneath the Livingstone roof-tree. Tom alone was 
urgent that she should remain under his mother’s pro- 
tection. He was going abroad again at once ; and he 
should be so much more happy and at ease if he left 
her, as he found her, there. Mrs. Livingstone seconded 
him courteously; but I think Marian’s presence was 
somewhat embarrassing to her at this juncture. How- 
ever that may have been, her courtesy and her son’s 
entreaties were alike met with polite but firm decision. 
Early in September Marian removed to her Fourteenth 
Street apartments; and the next week Tom Living- 
stone’s name was registered among the passengers of the 
“ Arago.” 

Miss Eyre felt a strong, sweet delight in her self-sov- 
ereignty as she went into her pleasant parlor and looked 
around her. In one corner stood a Psyche, which 
surely she remembered ; in another a winged Hope, by 
some disciple of Canova. One picture, a face of Saint 
Catherine, with eyes full of courage and of faith, lips 
strong for prayer and tender for praise, — hung over 


^252 


!SOME WOMEN'^B HEARTS. 


her mantle, on which flowers bloomed in crystal vases. 
It was like coming home to come back to these old, be- 
loved objects ; but she did not understand their being 
in her possession. She felt sure that Mr. Upjohn would 
come to inquire after her comfort, and she waited for 
an explanation from him impatiently. When at last he 
came, and her question followed her greeting, he only 
smiled and said : — 

“ I thought it would not be good for you to have too 
much money. The rest had sold so readily that I ven- 
tured to keep these for your own pleasure.” 

He was repaid for all his trouble by her bright, cor- 
dial thanks. Somehow they had grown singularly good 
fl’iends since the night when he gave up all hope of 
their ever being more than friends. She felt very near 
to him, very comfortable with him, this evening, as 
she told him over all her plans, profiting by his clear 
sagacity, made hopeful by his hopefulness for her, 
catching the contagion of his strength. She looked 
at the rugged manliness of his face, and found some- 
thing noble in it, which she wondered that she had 
failed to discover before. She was not quite desolate, 
surely, since she had this one friend, who had loved 
her father, whom her father had loved, and who, she 
felt now, would be her friend for all time. 

She had no difficulty in arranging her class upon 
satisfactory terms. She laughed cheerfully with Mr. 
Upjohn, who came to see her as often as once a week, 
about being an independent, self-supporting woman; 
and she found an interest in her regular task, which 


HOUSE HOLD GODS. 


253- 


really made life brighter and better worth living for 
her. 

Sometimes, as the winter passed on and she saw more 
and more of Mr. Upjohn, finding in him always the 
same cordial, earnest, but unlover-like friend, she began 
to wonder whether he had really ever loved her at all, 
or only been moved by sympathy in her distress on 
that one night which she so well remembered. Did 
he remember it as well, unconscious as he always 
seemed? She began to long to know. She recalled 
his words: — 

“ If 1 had not loved you first I should not have dared 
to pity you ; ” and, knowing that he was truth itself, 
she felt that he must have cared for her then, though 
his strong manliness had helped him to overcome it so 
utterly now. 

She believed honestly that she did not regret the lost 
opportunity, but every week she saw more clearly how 
much he was to her, even as a friend, which Tom Liv- 
ingstone never could have been. Was it that, after 
all, the world’s workers must ever be nobler than the 
world’s idlers ; or that a larger outlook on life had 
given him a wider horizon ; or that in his nature, as 
God made it, there was capacity for nobler issues than 
in the other’s ? She could not tell. She had only a 
subtile consciousness that, let her soul take wings as it 
might, in no height of her aspiring could she ever soar 
beyond his capacity to stand beside her. 

She was still too shy in her confessions to herself, or 
perhaps too wanting in sielf-knowledge, to fully divine 


254 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEAETS. 


how different her answer would be likely to be now, if 
he were to ask the old question over again ; and he, on 
his part, understood himself so well, and was habitu- 
ally so sure of his own emotions, that it never occurred 
to him to doubt whether Marian was equally self-poised, 
— whether her “ no ” once spoken must needs be “ no ” 
for all time. He was not at all likely, therefore, to give 
her an opportunity to change her mind. But just here 
an accidental turn of a conversation, a lucky chance, — 
I speak after the usual fashion, but I believe in a heav- 
enly and special Providence, — occurred to set them 
both right. 

He came in one evening, and found her warming her 
slender fingers by the fire blaze. She looked so lovely, 
so homelike, so entirely gentle and womanly, that, 
despite the seal he had long ago set upon his wishes, 
his heart went out toward her in a great wave of love 
and longing. But he only spoke to her with the calm 
friendliness of his usual manner. 

“ I am cold,” she said. “ I have just been to Murray 
Hill to make a call of congratulation. The second Miss 
Livingstone is soon to be married to Colonel George 
Seabright.” 

“ Seabright ! Why, he is as old as I am, and Maud 
Livingstone is very young, is she not?” 

“ Nineteen last autumn ; but what is that if she loves 
him, and I think she does.” 

“ But do you think it no sacrifice when a woman loves 
and marries a man older than herself?” 

“ I think no marriage is a sacrifice when a woman 
loves.” 


HOUSEHOLD OODS. 


255 


Some glint in her eyes inspired him. He looked into 
her face. 

“ I think you felt differently once,” he said, slowly. 

“ I was not very well worth loving in those days. 1 
neither understood myself nor any one else.” 

“ But you do understand yourself now, and I do not 
think you liave changed your mind.” 

“If I have not, I presume you have,” she said, 
aichly. 

Both her hands were in his in a moment. Pride, 
passion, power, all looked together from his eyes, and 
then were succeeded by and lost in a strong, pure ten- 
derness. 

“ You will,” — that was the first impulse, — “I mean, 
will you, Marian, will you give up your class at the 
end of this quarter?” 

“For what?” the bright archness lingered in her 
tone, but her pale cheeks flushed with the dawning of 
a new day, and her eyes were too shy to meet those 
which sought them. 

“ To be my wife.” 

Was it the same Marian Eyre whom he had wooed 
in vain before whose hands staid in his now so willingly, 
whose lips he kissed with the glad audacity of a happy 
lover ? 

“ The patient are the strong,” a tender ballad says ; 
but certainly in this instance the strong was not the 
patient. Perhaps Mr. Upjohn thought that a man who 
had waited thirty-six years for his happiness had waited 
long enough. At any rate, he hurried Marian with her 


266 


SOMJE WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


preparations uihil he had shortened his probation to 
the briefest possible space. There was a little talk 
about a bridal journey, but that she put aside. 

“I would rather go home,” she said, honestly. 
“You know I never had any home, never in all my 
life.” 

So, not at all reluctant at the change of programme, 
he busied himself in making home ready for her. 

She had been used to relying on him so long, in 
matters of business, that for him to assume all respon- 
sibility seemed natural and proper; and it never oc- 
curred to her to wonder that in these arrangements of 
his he neither consulted her taste nor asked any assist- 
ance from her. She went on quietly with her own 
preparations, more simple, indeed, than they would 
have been once, but not without a certain distinguished 
elegance, lacking which Marian would not have been 
herself. 

At last, one afternoon, they were quietly married in 
church, and drove away together to their home in a 
pleasant up-town street. 

When she stepped into the hall, with her husband’s 
welcome spoken low and tender in her ear, Marian 
began to recognize some old acquaintances, — certain 
bronze knights in armor whom she saw first, years ago, 
in the shop of a noted Roman fabricant; a cuckoo 
clock on a bracket of Geneva wood-carving ; an antique 
table with a curious vase upon it. 

Watching her face, Mr. Upjohn led her through the 
house. Here a soft-eyed picture hung ; there a shape 


HOUSEHOLD GODS. 


257 


in marble gleamed ; yonder a well-known group in terra 
cotta told its old story. In her own room, her Hope 
and her Psyche and her soft-eyed Saint Catherine kept 
watch and ward. They had been removed while she 
was at church to the place appointed for them. Every- 
where was some beloved relic of the old days, — not one 
of her treasures missing. 

“ You bought them all?” she asked, at last. 

“Yes, dear; with no thought or hope, then, of this 
happy, happy day, — but because, even then, I loved 
you too well to see any thing you had helped to select, 
or care for, pass into the hands of strangers.” 

“ You know I cannot thank you,” she began, but 
just there she broke down utterly, a very woman in 
her happiness, and wept such tears as all true women 
who have loved happily can understand. Round her 
were all her household gods, and she had found, at last, 
her rest and her home. . 


THE JUDGE’S WIFE. 


TT 7H0SE house is that behind the elms?” asked 
^ ^ a stranger, one summer morning in 18 — , of 
Israel King, landlord of the only inn the good town 
of Essex could boast. Strangers frequently made this 
inquiry, for the house in question was by far the 
most noticeable in the little village. The situation, on 
the top of a gentle hill, was in itself fine. Koble old 
trees, stately enough to have been the pride of some 
English park, surrounded it, and between their foliage 
you could catch tempting glimpses of a large, hospi- 
table-looking stone mansion. 

‘‘Yes, that is a hansum house. You are not the 
fust one, by a good many, to ask who it belongs to,” 
commenced the landlord i\. his circumlocutory fashion, 
rubbing his hands and sitting down as who might, if he 
was urged, a tale unfold. “ I calkerlate it’s about as 
hansum a house as you’ll find in a country village any- 
where, and Judge Elliott, the man who owns it and 
lives in it, is a fine man, — a master fine man, I call 
him, though there’s been some hard talk about him, but 
that’s neither here nor there;” and Israel shut his 


THE JUDGE WIFE, 


259 


lips together as one not to be induced to tell any thing 
more, — at least not without urging. 

By this time, however, the stranger’s curiosity was 
really aroused; besides, he had a lonely morning to 
pass before he could attend to the business which had 
brought him to Essex, and what could while away the 
hours more agreeably than to listen to a story, — a 
veritable New-England romance ? So he fell in with 
the landlord’s humor, and urged the worthy publican 
to his heart’s content. 

“Waal,” commenced the narrator, “I dunno as I 
mind tollin’ ye, seein^ yer a stranger here, an’ it can’t 
do no hurt, ef it don’t do no good. It’s nigh onto 
fifteen year ago ; let me see, — yes, Hwas seventeen 
year ago last spring, — how time does fly, don’t it ? — 
when Jacob Elliott, he wan’t judge then, come to 
Essex and hung out his shingle. He was a master 
smart young lawyer, an Englishman born, and he’d 
larnt most of his law in England. Anyhow, he’d got 
admitted to this county bar some way, and he’d prac- 
tised a year over in Simsbury afore he come here. I 
never see any young man come up as he did. ’Twant 
long afore he was on one side or t’other of about 
eveiy hard case that was tried in Har’ford county, and 
the side he was on most gen’ ally come off ahead. 
When he’d been here seven year they chose him Judge 
of the County Court. 

“ But I’m gittin’ afore my story. He hadn’t been 
here long when he got acquainted with ’Lizabeth 
Mills. I dunno as you’d a called her hansum, — most 


260 


SOME WOMEN HEARTS. 


o’ folks didn’t, but somehow'^l liked the looks of her 
better’n any girl in Essex, and I guess ’Squire Elliott 
was pooty much o’ my opinion. 

‘‘ She wan’t small, — ruther above middle size, I 
guess you might call her neither slim nor stout. She 
had kind of a stately form, and my good woman used 
to say she made her think of our horse-chestnut tree, 
— not a bit too large for her height, and not a bit 
too tall for her size, but shaped just as true as a die, 
and kind o’ lofty lookin’, as if small things couldn’t git 
nigh her. She^s kind o’ poetical. Miss King is, and she 
alius thought a master sight of ’Lizabeth Mills. So did 
everybody, for that matter. All the old folks was greatly 
took up with her, she was so perlite and respectful and 
willin’ to talk with ’em. The young girls all liked 
her. She was so neat and so smart, — she knew how 
to twist a ribbon or tie a bow better’n the best of ’em, 
and she was alius ready to help other folks. Besides, 
she never interfered with their sweethearts. The little 
children, — it did beat all how they took to her. She 
alius had some nice story to tell ’em, and she made ’em 
rag-babies, and did a heap o’ things for ’em the other 
girls was too full of beaux and finery ever to think o’ 
doin’. When she went amongst the little ones they 
was alius all over her to once, and she never seemed a 
bit put out by ’em. Her face would kind o’ kindle up 
when she see how they loved her, and my good woman 
said the smiles she would give ’em it did her heart good 
to see. ‘ She ought to be married and have some of her 
own, she loves ’em so well,’ says Miss King. I was 


TEE JUDGE WIFE, 


261 


pooty much of the same opinion, but we used to think 
it was main doubtful whether she ever got married ; 
the young men was all afraid of her. Truth to tell, 
they was the only human critters who was oneasy in 
her company. Old folks and young folks, children and 
grandparents, all felt free and easy with her, hut the 
young men hung off. Girls that wan’t good enough to 
tie up her shoe-strings got courted and married, hut 
she got along to twenty-three, and I don’t believe any 
chap had ever so much as walked home with her from 
meetin’ or singin’ school, exceptin’ her own brother 
William. 

“Her father — everybody called him ’Squire Mills, 
he’d been Justice of the Peace nigh onto twenty year 
— was one of our fust men. He owned the best farm 
in Essex, and folks kind o’ looked up to him. They 
lived in hansummer style than most on us, ’specially 
arter ’Lizabeth grew up. She had a mighty sight o’ 
taste, that girl had. Their parlor used to look, of a 
summer day, like a little garden, with pinks and roses 
put all round in cheney saucers and little glass dishes. 
He hadn’t but them two children, ’Squire Mills hadn’t, 
and they did think a main sight of one ’nother. ’Liza- 
beth was jest two years the oldest, but William was 
taller than she was, and they was alius together. 

“ But you’ll think I’m steerin’ a good ways from 
my story. Truth is, I ain’t so young as I used to be, 
and my thoughts have got slow ’long with my steps, 
and like jest about as well as my feet do to stop among 
the old places and rest. Never mind, it all has some- 


262 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


thing more or less, to do with Jacob Elliott. He come 
to Essex when ’Lizabeth was jest about twenty-three, 
and I calkerlate he wan’t fur from thirty. As I was 
sayin’, ’twan’t long afore he got acquainted with ’Squire 
Mills’ folks, and he and ’Lizabeth seemed to take to 
each other from the fust. He was over there most every 
night on one excuse or another; and they read to- 
gether, and talked, and walked about under the trees ; 
but somehow I didn’t think the courtin’ seemed to git 
along very fast. The young man grew thin and pale, 
and somethin’ seemed to worry him mightily. You 
had to speak to him twice afore he’d hear you, and 
everybody noticed how absent-minded he was. Most 
o’ folks laid it to his bein’ ’fraid of ’Lizabeth ; she had 
carried sech a high head to all the young men. But 
my good woman sees about as fur into a millstone as 
anybody, and, says she to me, — 

‘‘‘Israel, you may depend ’tain’t no sech a thing. 
He understands ’Lizabeth too well to feel ’fraid of her. 
He’s got somethin’ to trouble him that we don’t know 
nothin’ about. Maybe he feels too poor to be married.’ 

“ The time come afterwards that we understood those 
symptoms better, but my good woman was right when 
she said he had somethin’ to trouble him that nobody 
knew on. 

“Waal, things went on in that fashion fur some time, 
and one night — it was a summer night, and dark as a 
pocket — I was outside of the house, sittin’ down to git 
cooled off under the horse-chestnut tree, in front there 
by the road, and I see ’Squire Elliott come out o’ ’Squire 


TEE JUDGE WIFE. 


263 


Mills’ gate, — that is ’Squire Mills’ house, the third one 
from here, on the other side of the road. I could see 
him in spite o’ the dark, — I’d been out so long my eyes 
had got used to it. I dunno as I told ye he took his 
meals at our house, but he lodged in his office, just be- 
yond here. As he come along by where I was sittin’, 
I heard him say to himself, he spoke kind o’ firm like, 
as if he’d made up his mind, — 

“‘Well, I shall taste happiness now. Dear girl. 
God knows I would die before any harm should come 
to her, but I cannot tell her my secret. She would 
never see the matter as I do.’ 

“ Arter his office door had shut, I went into the house 
and told Miss King what I’d heerd. My good woman 
never was no gossip. 

“‘Waal, Israel,’ says she, when I’d told her, ‘keep it 
all to yourself. If ’Squire Elliott don’t choose to tell 
his secrets, don’t you go and let on that he’s got ’em. 
He knows his own business best, and he’ll do about the 
right thing, I guess. He’s a good man ; he shows it in 
his face.’ 

“Waal, I took Miss King’s advice. I didn’t say 
any thing, and the next day we heerd that ’Squire Elliott 
and ’Lizabeth Mills had promised to have one another, 
and would be married that fall. From that day ’Squire 
Elliott seemed to have put off his trouble, whatever it 
was. He had a quick hearin’ and a kind word for 
everybody, and his face — he was a master hansum 
man — seemed all kindled up with hope. 

“Where his stone house stands now was a good, 


264 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


roomy two-story wooden one then, and ’Squire Mills 
owned the place. It was ruther old-fashioned, to be 
sure, but it had been a good house in its day, and all 
the trees and every thing o’ that sort was jest as han- 
sum then as they are now. Jacob Elliott wan’t wuth 
a great deal, but old ’Squire Mills give a deed o’ the 
place to ’Lizabeth, and fitted it up a little, and that fall 
they was married and went to livin’ in it. 

“You never see a happier couple. For the next five 
years I don’t believe they knew what trouble meant, 
only I reckon ’Lizabeth would have liked some children, 
and they never had none. Babies came thick as hops to 
folks that had nothin’ to take care on ’em with and didn’t 
want’ em, and ’Squire Elliott’s practice grew bigger, and 
he made more and more money every year, and there 
was only they two to use it. Maybe ’twas my notion 
that ’Lizabeth wanted any more. At any rate, they 
was all bound up in each other, and they seemed happy 
as the day is long. 

“At last the ’Squire concluded to build, and they 
went home one summer, and staid to old ’Squire Mills’. 
In the mean time the old house was tore down, and 
that big stone one put up in its place, and in the fall 
they went to housekeepin’ again. There didn’t seem to 
be any human comfort wantin’ to ’em then. That winter 
Lizabeth jined the church. She alius had seemed as 
good as a saint to me, but Miss King said, after this her 
face was like the face of an angel, and her voice was so 
tender and full of love to everybody that it most made 
the tears come in your eyes to hear it. 


THE JUDGE WIFE, 


265 


“The next year they chose him Judge, and now 
Judge Elliott was quite a great man among us. They 
looked up to him more than ever, and folks that hadn’t 
seen any beauty in ’Lizabeth Mills’ face begun to think 
her a ’mazin’ fine-lookin’ woman, now her husband was 
Judge, and she wore silks and satins stifiT enough, as 
Miss King said, to stand alone. Most folks would ’a 
been set up, in her place, but she hadn’t half so high 
and mighty an air to anybody now as she used to put on 
to the young men when she was ’Lizabeth Mills. She 
was a true Christian, if there’s one on earth, I b’lieve, 
and she did all the good she could to everybody. It 
seems main hard that heavy trouble should come to any 
one so good as she was, but the Scripter says that the 
Lord chastens those He loves, and maybe, though we 
couldn’t see it, her heart was sot too much on this 
world. 

“ The next summer arter the one Jacob Elliott was 
chosen Judge there came a stranger to my house, — 
I’ve kept tavern here for twenty-five year, summer and 
winter. He was a gentleman, I saw that the niinit I 
put my eye on him. He looked somethin’ like Judge 
Elliott, I couldn’t help thinkin’. He was younger, and 
his featers wan’t much like the Judge’s, only there was 
a kind of a look, — what you might call a family like- 
ness. He told me if he found it pleasant here, he might 
stop several days, and he should like to git acquainted 
with some of the people in the village. He was an 
Englishman, he said, travellin’ in America for pleasure, 
and he thought the best way of judging of a country 
12 


266 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS, 


was to know somethin’ about its inhabitants. Then^ 
says he, kind o’ careless like, as you asked me thi^ 
mornin’, — 

“ ‘ Who lives in that hansum stone house behind 
the elms ? ’ 

“ I told him it was Judge Elliott, and that he was ai 
Englishman. He seemed mightily interested at oncej 
and I went on and told him all I knew about the Judge, 
so fur; jest as I’ve told it to you, only I didn’t speak o’ 
the words I’d heerd him say the night arter he got en- 
gaged to ’Lizabeth Mills. 

‘‘ When I’d got through, says he, — ‘ Thank you, Mr. 
King,’ — he was a mighty perlite, smooth-spoken man, 
— ‘I have been very much interested in your story. 
Would you feel free to take me over to Judge Elliott’s, 
and introduce me ? I should like to make his acquaint- 
ance very much.’ 

“ ‘ Free,’ says I, ‘ bless your heart, anybody feels free 
to go and see Judge Elliott, — there isn’t a kinder or 
more hospitable man anywhere.’ 

“ With that I went into the house and brushed up a 
little. Then I clapped on my hat and started off. It 
wanted jest about two hours of dinner time. It hap- 
pened that the Judge himself came to the door. 

“ ‘ How do you do, neighbor King ? ’ says he, in his 
pleasant, friendly way, and then his eyes fell upon the 
stranger gentleman. I could have sworn that he turned 
as white as a sheet to his very lips, but the next second 
I doubted my own eyes, for his smile was so composed 
and pleasant, and his maimer so natural that it didn’t 


THE JUDGE ''S WIFE. 


267 


seem as if any thing could have stirred him up enough 
to make him turn pale a minit afore. 

“ ‘ Perhaps,’ thinks I, ‘ it was only in my eyes, and 
perhaps it might have been a suddin pain come over 
him.’ 

“ So I took no notice. Says I, — 

“‘Judge Elliott, this is Mr. Robert Armstrong, an 
English gentleman, who would like to git acquainted 
with you.’ 

“He shook hands heartily with the stranger, — he 
was alius a master cordial man, — and then he invited 
us in. The time passed quickly, and, fust we knew, it 
was dinner time. We had sot talkin’ two hours. To 
be sure I hadn’t talked much, I reckoned it warn’t my 
place ; no more had Mr. Armstrong, fur that matter ; 
he’d seemed satisfied to sit an’ hear the Judge talk and 
look at him, and sure enough I’d never seen Judge El- 
liott more sociable, and he alius was a mighty good 
talker. When I see it was dinner time I made a move 
to go, but the Judge wouldn’t hear to no sech thing. 
We must both stay and take dinner with him, he said. 
Fust I thought I’d go home and leave Mr. Armstrong, 
but arter a good deal o’ pressin’ I agreed to stay too. 

“ Jest then Miss Elliott come into the room. You’ve 
no idee how grand and kind o’ splendid she looked in 
that hansum parlor. It seemed jest made for her to 
live in. She had on a silk gown, sort of a dove color, 
and it trailed along behind her on the carpet when she 
walked. She had more hair than any other woman I 
ever see, and it was braided that day, and wound round 


268 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS, 


her head somethin’ like pictures you’ve seen of queens. 
She couldn’t a looked more like a queen ef she'd been 
born one, — so stately as she was, with her silk dress, 
her pale face, and her dark eyes, with pride and kind- 
ness both in their looks. I tell you I was a little set 
up to have the Englishman see in a Har’ford County 
Connecticut girl ^ woman they’d a’ been proud of in 
Queen Vic’s court. I see he was struck all of a heap 
with her, to once. He talked with her very quiet and 
respectful, and she was sociable and yet dignified to him, 
and real friendly to the old tavern-keeper she’d known 
ever sence she was knee-high. 

“It didn’t want very keen eyes to see that the Judge 
was prouder o’ her than of house and lands ; and every 
now and then, in the midst of her talk, she would look 
at her husband, with eyes runnin’ over full of love. I 
tell you, stranger, it ain’t every man that gits looked at 
like that in his journey through this world. I could 
see Armstrong noticed her looks and understood ’em 
as well as I did. 

“Waal, pooty soon we had dinner, and a nice one it 
was, too ; and when it was over, the Judge invited us to 
walk out into the grounds. Miss Elliott, she stayed in 
the house, and arter a little I got kind o’ strayed away 
from ’em. I hadn’t any idee of their having any pri- 
vacy to talk, but I thought they might get better ac 
quainted without me than with me. 

“There’s a double walk round back o’ the Judge’s 
house. Three rows of pine-trees are planted thick to- 
gether, in kind of semicircular fashion ; a middle row 


TEE JUDGE S WIFE. 


269 


and two outside ones. Between the middle row and 
each outside one is a walk where you can never hear a 
footstep, the dead pine leaves cover the ground so soft 
and thick. Somehow the shade looked invitin’, and 
arter a little I went into one of these walks. It was 
the outside one, furthest from the house, and pooty soon 
I heard Judge Elliott’s voice, and knew’t they were in 
the other one. 

“ Bimeby I looked through, between the trees. 1 
knew the green was so thick they warn’t likely to see 
me, and I thought I’d jest give ’em a good look, as they 
walked slowly along, and see ef it had all been my im- 
agination about Mr. Armstrong’s lookin’ so much like 
the Judge. They were pacin’ under the pines, and the 
Judge made some remark and seemed waitin’ for an 
answer. Just that minit Mr. Armstrong — he was a 
little ahead — turned round suddenly and stood full in 
front of Judge Elliott. 

“ ‘ My brother,’ he cried out, with sort of a tender 
yearnin’ in his voice, ‘ my own dear brother Alfred,’ — - 
I was lookin’ at the Judge and I saw that same strange 
look pass a second time over his face, turnin’ it white 
to the lips. But, as afore, it went away in a minit, and 
he gave Mr. Armstrong kind of a puzzled, surprised 
smile. 

“ ‘ Do not deny me, you cannot,’ the stranger went 
on, his voice gatherin’ up passion and energy. ‘You 
are my brother, my own elder brother Alfred. Did 
you think / would believe , you were dead? Did you 
think I would never find you ? I loved you too well, 


270 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


— my heart clung to you as to my life. I felt in my 
heart that the world still held you. I have hoped and 
waited all these years, and at last it came about in the 
very strangest way. I happened to see a few numbers 
of the North American Heview^ and there were some 
articles in them which I knew were yours. There was 
no name to them, but I could not be mistaken. They 
advocated some of your favorite old theories ; they had 
exactly your cast of mind, your very turns of expres- 
sion. I thought no labor too much by which I might 
hope to find my brother ; so with only this clue I crossed 
the ocean. I came to Boston and learned the name 
and address of the author of those papers, and then I 
came here to find you. The landlord strengthened my 
conviction by telling me you were an Englishman, and 
had not been in this country more than nine or ten 
years. And now I have seen your well-known smile ; 
heard your well-known voice; felt the touch of your 
hand. Do you think you could deceive me now f Oh, 
Alf, Alf, you will not try to shut me out of your 
heart ? ’ 

“At that moment he made a movement as if he 
would throw himself on his brother’s neck, and Judge 
Elliott drew back real quiet and dignified. Armstrong 
had forced me into believin’ him by his earnestness, but 
I must say I was staggered by the Judge’s cool, calm 
manner. I couldn’t believe any brother could put it 
on arter listenin’ to sech words. I begun to think the 
stranger must be on a wrong track. 

“ ‘ I am more than puzzled by what you say,’ an- 


THE JUDGE WIFE, 


271 


swered the Judge, in his grave, perlite way. ‘My 
name is not Alfred Armstrong, but Jacob Elliott. I 
am an Englishman, it is true, but I think if you will 
look at me again you will convince yourself that we 
have never met before.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, Alf, Alf,’ cried the stranger again, ‘ this is too 
«ruel. I cannot bear it. I will not. To have hoped 
'for this meeting for ten long years and then be cast off 
dke this. I know that woman I saw in the house 
would be an excuse for a good deal, but I swear to you 
( will not interfere with your happiness. I will not ask 
jTou to take your first wife back. I will not betray you 
10 a soul on earth ; only call me brother ; only let me 
into your heart,’ and he made as if he would have 
thrown himself at Judge Elliott’s feet, and still the 
Judge drew back and answered calmly, and yet sort o’ 
cuttingly, — 

“ ‘ I should be sorry, my dear sir, to suspect you of 
being a monomaniac, but I am at a loss to account for 
your vagaries in any other manner. The only wife I 
ever had is Mrs. Elliott, the lady I had the honor of 
presenting to you. I have no brother, and never had, 
and if you persist further in this strange talk I shall be 
obliged to bring our interview to a close.’ 

“ I declare, sir, I wish you could a’ heard how that 
Armstrong did beg. I can’t tell it over, rightly, so I 
won’t try, but it acterly squeezed the tears out o’ my 
eyes, and I ain’t one o’ the cryin’ kind. He couldn’t 
a begged harder fur his life. He kep tellin’ over all 
sorts of boy capers that he said they had cut up to- . 


272 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


gether, — he talked about his mother, and how she 
told ^em to love one ’nother when she was dying ; and 
he p>romised to go away satisfied if the Judge would 
only call him brother once, and let him go off thinkin’ 
they t loved one ’nother as they used to. 

“But ’twan’t no use. The Judge didn’t flinch a 
hair. He wan’t apparently no more moved than a 
stone. He kep jest as perlite and smilin’ as ever, 
until at last he seemed to git tired o’ listenin’, and then 
he j)ut a stop to the talk ruther sternly, and turned to 
walk away. I never shall forgit how Armstrong’s face 
looked that minit. Somethin’ like pride seemed riz up in 
him at last, and he cried out in a firm, strong voice, — 

“ ‘ Alfred Armstrong, I will trouble you no more, — 
I will never trouble you again. Cast me off and deny 
me, if you will, — forget your dead mother and your 
poor old living father, and scorn every tie of blood ! 
Go on in sin, yes, sin^ and the time will come when 
my face shall haunt you ; when you won’t die easy 
without my forgiveness, which you must asJc for before 
you have it.’ 

“ The Judge never made no answer. There was a 
mighty strange look on his face as he walked away, as 
if he had fixed all his features jest so, so’t they 
shouldn’t tell no story. I was puzzled, you may 
depend. I didn’t know what to make of any on’t. 
When you heerd Armstrong speak you couldn’t help 
believin’ him, and then again I thought he must be 
mistaken, ’cause I didn’t think any nateral born brother 
could a’ stood it out agin them words as the Judge 


TEE JUDGE ->8 WIFE, 


273 


had. And then I see some things that didn’t look 
quite reasonable to that .view o’ the case, so I had to 
give it up. I was mighty shamed o’ listenin’, I con- 
fess to you, but I hadn’t had no notion o’ doin’ on’t in 
the fust place, and I dunno but most men would a’ 
done the same thing if they had stood in my place, 
arter they’d heerd the beginnin’ on’t. Anyhow, I went 
out o’ the other end o’ the pine walk, and dodged 
about among the trees, and went into the parlor, and 
I don’t think Judge Elliott ever mistrusted, from that 
day to this, that I heerd him. 

“ It wan’t more’n ten minutes afore he and Mr. Arm- 
strong come in together, as perlite and civil as possible, 
but I didn’t think there seemed quite as much friendli- 
ness betwixt ’em as there had afore dinner. Mr. Arm- 
strong apologized for keepin’ me waitin’, and pooty 
soon we started for home. You may b’lieve ’twan’t 
long afore I’d told Miss King all about it. 

“ That’s one o’ the prime comforts o’ havin’ a good 
wife. When you want to tell somethin’ so you can’t 
keep it in no longer, you can go to her, and it’s jest as 
safe as it was afore. She didn’t know what to make 
on’t no more’n I did, but she charged me to keep it all 
to myself, and I may say I didn’t need no caution on 
that pint, for Judge Elliott wan’t a man a body’d like 
to git sot agin him, and indeed I liked him and his 
wife both, too much to want to make ’em an) trouble. 
Ef there was any thing at all to Armstrong’s story, wife 
and I concluded that the Judge had had a wife in 
England and been divorced from her, and was afraid 
12 * 


B 


274 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS, 


to have it come out for fear ’Lizabeth wouldn’t li\e 
with him ; knowin’ how strict she was about them 
matters. Ef that was the case, Miss King said there 
was some excuse for his not ownin’ his brother, for w^e 
all knew that he sot his life by ’Lizabeth. But we were 
fur enough from guessing the truth. We wan’t much 
surprised when Mr. Armstrong paid his bill and left 
the next mornin’. We kep all these things to our- 
selves, and I may safely say that’s more’n sJme people 
would a done ; maybe more’n I should a done ef I 
hadn’t had my good woman to help me. 

“ Alter this time it seemed to me that I could see a 
little difference in the Judge. I reckon no one else 
noticed it, but I could see that he was more silent, and 
when he wan’t talkin’ there was a look in his face as if 
some heavy trouble had settled down on his heart. 
I guess he was more’n ever soft and tender to ’Lizabeth. 
Folks said, laughingly, that he seemed to be afraid he 
should lose her if she was out of his sight a minit; 
and, true enough, when he was to home they wan’t 
never long separated. 

“ It went on three months, and then, ’long the fust 
of October, the Judge was suddenly took down with 
brain fever. I ’spose all these things had been a 
harassin’ him till he couldn’t keep ’em under no longer. 
From the fust day he was took down he was jest as 
crazy as a loon. Miss King alius was a master hand 
at nussin’, and she thought so much o’ ’Lizabeth that 
she went right over there and told ’em she’d stay by, 
pretty much o’ the time till the wust was over. After 


'±HE JUDGE WIFE, 


275 


slie’d been there twenty-four hours, she come home to 
see to things a little, and she told me it was enough to 
break a body’s heart to hear how the Judge went on. 
Sometimes he’d start up and say, real firm, — ‘ My 
name is not Alfred Armstrong. I am Jacob Elliott.’ 
Then sometimes he’d cry out, so pitiful, to his brother 
^ o come back, — that he never meant to send him off, 
— he did love him, and alius had. Often and often he’d 
say, as humble as a little child, — ‘ Won!t you forgive 
me, brother Robert ? You told the truth, I can’t die 
easy without it, — oh, Rob ! ’ 

“ Other times he’d shout out to him to be gone, — 
that ’Lizabeth was his wife, the only wife he ever did 
have, or would have, — nobody should take her away. 
Then again he’d put on a smilin’, perlite face that was 
wuss than any on’t to see, and he’d say, — 

“ ‘ I never saw you before, no, sir, never. Excuse me, 
but you are entirely mistaken.’ 

“ I ’spose Miss King understood these things a good 
deal better’n ’Lizabeth did, but, of course, she couldn’t 
explain nothin’. He kep goin on so, day arter day. 

“ Gen’ally I used to see my good woman once a day, 
and she told me it did beat all how ’Lizabeth bore it. 
She was jest as white as a sheet. Miss King said, but 
she kep over him night and day, and never seemed a 
bit tired nor sleepy. Wife had a sofy in one corner o’ 
the room, where she used to lie down and sleep nights, 
for she was determined not to leave ’Lizabeth, and, 
spite o’ restin’ a good deal, she was pretty well tuck- 
ered out ; but she said ’Lizabeth didn’t seem to know 


276 


SOME WOMEN^S BEAUTS, 


what tired meant. Miss Mills, ’Lizabeth’s mother, was 
old and feeble now, so’t she couldn’t be there, and wife 
tried to be a mother to the poor, troubled critter as 
well as she could. ’Lizabeth was one o’ them kind 
that don’t love easy, but when they do love it’s deep. 
Miss King said if the Judge died she thought they’d 
both go together. 

‘‘ One mornin’, when he’d been sick a little more’n 
a week, I got up early and went out door. It was 
jest about the finest mornin’ I ever see. The sun was 
cornin’ up red and round, and the trees was green as 
ever in some places, and in others they looked as if 
they’d jest been sot afire. I don’t pertend to think 
much o’ sech things, but somehow, that mornin’ took 
right hold of me, and made me feel soft-hearted, but 
maybe I shouldn’t remember it so well ef it hadn’t been 
for what came arterwards. 

Jest then I see Miss King a cornin’, and I went to 
meet her. Somehow I was ’mazin’ glad to see her. 
There hadn’t been a soul to stop to the house sence the 
Judge was sick, and there hadn’t been no partikler need 
of her in a business pint o’ view, but somehow things 
alius look lonesome to home when a woman ain’t about. 

“ When I come up to her, though, I see pretty soon 
that somethin’ more’n common had happened. At fust 
thought I didn’t know but the Judge was dead, and I 
asked her, 

‘‘‘No,’ says she, ‘but I dunno but he’d better be 
afore all qomes out that’s got to.’ 

“ She wouldn’t say no more till we’d got into the 


THE JUDGE WIFE, 


277 


house and sot down together, all alone. Then she told 
me how, the night before, as she lay on the sofy in the 
corner, and Miss Elliott sot by the Judge’s bed, he 
woke up, and she could see in a minit that he was 
rational again. She said she’d been talkin’ with Miss 
Elliott the minit afore, and as long as she knew of 
her bein’ there she thought no harm o’ lyin’ still, 
though perhaps she’d ought to have got up and gone 
out. The Judge was dreadful weak, but he managed 
to put out his hand and touch his wife’s. In a minit 
she was bendin’ over him and kissin’ him as if he’d been 
a baby. Says he, — 

“•‘You do love me, ’Lizabeth. All this time when 
you thought I didn’t know any thing I’ve felt that you 
was hoverin’ round me and taking care o’ me.’ 

“ As he said that. Miss King said the tears gushed 
right out, and his wife kind o’ soothed him, and then, 
pooty soon, he broke out again. He said he couldn’t 
keep his secret no longer. It had well nigh killed him, 
or made him crazy for life, keepin’ it so long. Then he 
went on and told her how, when he was a young man, 
not much more’n a boy, he’d been married in England. 
He didn’t love the woman, nor she didn’t love him, but 
she was rich, and somehow his folks and hern fixed it 
up between ’em, and he didn’t make no objections. 
He’d never been in love then, and sech things was more 
common there than they are here. So he lived with the 
woman a number o’ year, and, from not carin’ any thing 
about her in the fust place, he got to most hatin’ her. 

“ She didn’t suit him no way, and he began to feel 


278 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


as ef all his futur was spilt by marryin’ her. But 
he was too reasonable to lay it all to her. I guess 
he blamed himself the most. Well, arter a while, he 
found out, pooty nigh for certain, that she hadn’t been 
true to him. He said he s’posed he might a got posi- 
tive proof of it ef he’d a tried, and ef he’d known what 
was cornin’ arter, he would a tried. But as it was, he 
didn’t think he should ever want to marry again, and 
he pitied her, and felt like bein’ merciful to her. He 
thought it wan’t her fault, marryin’ as she did, — that, 
maybe, ef he’d a loved her, and been tender and lovin’ 
to her, she’d a’ kep strait. So he concluded to leave her 
her good name, and all the money he had married her 
for, and go off in sech a way that folks would think he 
had killed himself, and she could marry the man she 
liked ef she wanted to. 

“It was pooty hard to leave his old father, and harder 
still to leave his younger brother, who had alius been 
nearer to him than any thing else in the world, ever 
sence his mother died, but he was pooty nigh desperate, 
and when he’d made up his mind he didn’t flinch. He 
come to America, and took a new name. He had 
studied law in England, and he went into ’Squire 
Holmes’ office over to Simsbury, — he’d happened to 
gil acquainted with the ’Squire in Boston, where he 
landed, — and pooty soon got admitted to the bar. 
He’d no thought of ever marryin’ at that time, but 
when he come here and see ’Lizabeth Mills, he found 
out what love was. 

“’Twould e’en a most melted a stone, my good 


TEE JUDGE WIFE, 


279 


woman said, to hear him tell how he loved her, and 
what a fight he had in his own mind afore he could 
make out what to do. He thought some, fust, of going 
back to England and tryin’ for a divorce, but he s’posed 
they’d all gin him up for dead there ; he didn’t know 
as he could get one, and he knew that ’Lizabeth was 
dead sot agin ’em. 

“Finally, he concluded that, whatever Alfred Arm- 
strong had done, Jacob Elliott had never been married, 
and he didn’t think there was one chance in a thousand 
that anybody’d ever know them two names meant one 
person. Take it all in all, he felt perfectly safe in gettin’ 
married agin ; and arter he’d once made up his mind 
his conscience never troubled him. He persuaded him- 
self that he was doin’ right. I’ve alius noticed it was 
pooty easy to do that when a man’s whole heart was 
sot on any thing. His life had been as happy as any 
human bein’s need to be till arter his brother come. 

“ He told her all that story, — how his heart had 
yearned over his brother, but he had loved her so much 
better he couldn’t run the shadder of a risk of havin’ 
to give her up, and so he had sent his brother off. But 
Robert’s voice had sounded ever sence in his ear, — he 
couldn’t silence it. Robert’s last words had stuck by 
film. Livin’ in sin, — he couldn’t get that out o’ his 
mind, and he had brooded over it until the fever came. 
He had never meant to tell her, but he couldn’t go any- 
where else for comfort, and he couldn’t keep it in no 
longer. All the way through. Miss King said ’Lizabeth 
had listened without sayin’ a word, but she could see 


280 


SOME WOMEN^S HEABTS. 


by the lamp-light that her face looked as ef it was 
turnin’ into stone, and when he got so fur a cry come 
out of her lips, not loud, but a sort of gasp like, as if 
her heart was breakin’, and says she, — 

“ ‘ Thank God that I’ve no children to bear this with 
me.’ Wife said she couldn’t help thinkin’ then how 
often we' see that God is blessin’ us instead of cursin’ 
us in keepin’ back the very things we hanker arter the 
most. When ’Lizabeth had gin that one cry she 
bowed her head down on the bed, kind o’ helpless like. 
With that. Miss King said, the J udge seemed as strong 
as a lion. He caught her in his arms and kissed her 
cheeks and her eyes and her white lips. He told her 
she was his wife, — his only wife ; the only one he had 
ever loved or would ever own, and, now she knew all, 
they would be so happy together. Surely she couldn’t 
think, for one moment, that first marriage was binding 
before God, — nobody could. A woman he had never 
loved, who had never loved him. Besides, he was Al- 
fred Armstrong no longer. He was another man now, 
and she was his wife, his own true wife, and no power 
on earth had any right to separate them. Then, when 
she didn’t say any thing, he began callin’ on her to for- 
give him, and tellin’ her if she didn’t, he should die 
there afore her eyes. At last this roused her, and she 
kissed him once. 

“ ‘ Oh, Jacob,’ says she, ‘forgive you ! I forgive you 
as I hope to be forgiven. How you have loved me.’ 

“ By this time he was all exhausted, and she soothed 
him and made him go to sleep. I s’pose, in his weak- 


THIS JUDGE WIFE, 


281 


ness, he thought ’twould be all right now, — she had 
forgiven him, and so they should live right along, jest 
as they did afore ; but, ef he did, he didn’t know ’Liza- 
beth. Arter he had got well to sleep she left him and 
come along to where wife was lyin’. Miss King said it 
seemed as ef she’d grown ten years older in that one 
night. Says she, — 

“ ‘ You heard it all? ’ Wife told her she did hear it, 
and that she pitied her as ef she was her own child. 
There was some pride left in her, gentle as she was. 
I s’pose she didn’t like to be pitied, and she cut Miss 
King short by askin’ her not to mention what she had 
heal'd, for her sake, till the Judge got better. Then it 
must all come out, but till then she’d be thankful to 
have it kept secret. Of course wife promised, and she 
didn’t consider that she broke it by tellin’ me, fur we 
never had no privacies from one ’nother. Keither of 
us said a single word to any outsider, but I tell you 
our hearts ached in them days for ’Lizabeth. Miss 
King was over there pooty much o’ the time till the 
Judge got better, and, as fur as she knew on, the sub- 
ject was never mentioned again betwixt him and Miss 
Elliott. But all this time, she said, ’Lizabeth was jest 
the tenderest nuss. She built him up as nobody else 
would a’ had the patience to, and at last, when he had 
got comfortable, she went out of the house one No- 
vember mornin’, and over to her father’s; and, pooty 
soon, we see old ’Squire Mills hobblin’ along arter the 
doctor. 

“ She had borne up as long as she could, and now 


282 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


she was took down with a fever herself; and for some 
six weeks we half hoped, half feared she would never 
get up again. I say half hoped she wouldn’t, fur it 
didn’t look as ef there could be any more comfort fur 
her in this life. We all knew how she loved the Judge, 
and we knew, jest as w^ell as we knew her, that she’d 
never live with him any more. 

“When he heard she was sick he was nigh upon 
crazy. Jest as soon as he could, he used to crawl over 
to ’Squire Mills’ and sit beside her. Even her best 
friends, now it had all come out, hadn’t the heart to 
reproach him. It was clear to everybody that he’d sot 
a great deal more by her than he did by his life, and he 
wan’t no more the same man that he was six months 
ago than two persons. Trouble and sickness had broke 
him down as twenty years o’ common life couldn’t have 
begun to. 

“ It was Christmas before ’Lizabeth begun to set up. 
Everybody called her ‘ Miss Elliott’ jest as they used 
to, and I s’pose ’twould a’ come hard to her to give up 
the name she had been called by through all the happi- 
est years of her life. When she was toler’ble well and 
strong she asked to see the Judge alone, one day. It 
was the fust time she ever had seen him alone a minit, 
sence she went out of his house. They had a long talk. 
Nobody knew what they said, but I s’pose she made 
him understand that they must never be nothin’ more’n 
common friends to each other again. When it was 
over she went upstairs to her room, and wan’t seen 
again that day by anybody, and the Judge come out 


THE JUDGE WIFE. 


283 


and walked slowly along to his own house, where he 
must live alone all the rest of his life, and his face 
looked a’most as if he was struck with death. 

“ Arter that he didn’t go there no more for some time, 
— then he got to goin’ again, maybe once a week, and 
she would sit in the room with her old, feeble mother 
and talk with him fur an hour together. But I should 
a thought ’twould a been about as bad as not seein’ one 
’nother at all. All this time she was urgin’ it upon him 
to go to England and make it up with his brother. 
Besides, she told him it was his duty to find out whether 
he hadn’t been mistaken about his wife, and, if he had 
been, to live with her again, if she wanted to live with 
him. I couldn’t see no duty o’ that sort about it, 
but ’Lizabeth had got it into her head, and she could 
alius make him do jest about what she thought was 
right. 

“ So the next spring he sailed for England, and it 
was nigh upon fall afore he got back again. He had 
found his father alive, and he and his brother had made 
it all up. As for his wife, the man that he thought she 
was in love with had been dead a number o’ year, and 
he heard a good character of her everywhere, so’t may- 
be he’d been mistaken in what he thought about her in 
the fust place. But she told him she never had loved 
him no more’n he had her, and that, so fur from havin’ 
any desire to live with him, nothin’ short o’ force would 
ever make her do it. So he come back, as he went, 
alone. 

“ He went to see ’Lizabeth the fust thing, and she 


284 


SOME WOMEN^S EEABTS. 


was well pleased that he had done his duty, but she 
knew her’n, and she could never be nothin’ more than 
friendly to him again. I don’t rightly understand the 
law o’ the case, but he couldn’t git a divorce from his 
English wife, though she might a got one from him ef 
she’d chosen, but she didn’t. 

“ I forgpt to say that as soon as the matter had come 
out he had resigned his office, but folks call him Judge 
Elliott still, and I s’pose they alius will. He’s had 
chances enough to practise, for ’most all that knew his 
story pitied him more’n they blamed him, but he 
hain’t done much business sence. ’Twan’t long afore 
his father died, and he got some consider’ble money from 
England. He paid ’Squire Mills more’n what the old 
place where he built his house was wuth, and I s’pose 
he’ll alius live there.” 

“How long is it since?” asked the stranger, as 
honest Israel King concluded the narrative to which he 
had been an absorbed listener. 

“ W aal, I should think a matter o’ nine year. Let’s see. 
Seven year arter he fust came here he was chose Judge, 
and the next year this afiair come out, and he’s been 
here in all seventeen year this spring.” 

“ And he has lived here nine years, only a few steps 
from the woman he loved so well ; who had thought 
herself, for seven years, his true and lawful wife, and 
neither of them are dead or mad ? ” 

Honest Israel smiled, a shrewd yet sorrowful smile. 

“No, they wan’t weak by natur, either of ’em. 
Plenty of women that didn’t love half so deep as 


THE JUDOE^S WIFE. 


285 


^Lizabeth would have broke their hearts and died, but 
hers broke and she lives. It's somethin’ like Moses 
smitin’ the rock for the water to gush out, my good 
woman says, for her life has been a constant stream of 
kindness and good deeds ever sence. She don’t shet 
herself up in any selfish sorrow, but I guess she goes to 
the best place for comfort, arter all. She does jest what 
God tells her. She’s kinder than ever to the old folks, 
and I guess she’s nigh about the best idee the children 
have got of an angel. She sees the Judge pretty often. 
He goes there every now and then and spends an even- 
ing with her and the old folks. Anybody’d s’pose that 
would be a sorrowful kind of comfort, but it seems to 
do him good ; and every now and then they meet when 
she’s on some of her walks, and he talks with her a 
little while, and then goes back into his hansum house 
alone. I should s’pose it must be a pretty hard tussle 
for him to live right along where she used to live with 
him, but Miss King thinks it’s the very reason he want’s 
to live there. ^ /She thinks he can kind o’ fancy, some- 
times, that ’Lizabeth’s sittin’ in the old places, and hear 
her voice when it’s all still and quiet round him.” 

The landlord paused, and his guest was silent also. 
Both were lingering in pensive thought over sorrows 
not their own. At length the old man touched the 
stranger’s arm. 

“ There she comes now,” he said, almost in a whis- 
per. “ You can go out and walk kind o’ careless along 
the road, and you’ll get a good sight at her.” 

The stranger’s interest was too much absorbed for 


286 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


him to pause and consider the questionable delicacy of 
this course. He went out of the yard, and sauntered 
along the street. He saw a woman of forty, more 
beautiful, to him, than any younger face he had ever 
seen. She looked, as Israel King had said, a grand 
woman, strong in body and soul. Her face was still, 
and pale, and fair. Round the lofty forehead was 
braided hair as dark and luxuriant as ever. Under it 
shone large, clear eyes, full of a glory and a light not 
of this Avorld. Heaven’s own peace sat on her feat- 
ures, and smiled in the mouth, sweet as a child’s, 
but firm as a martyr’s. She wore a quiet, gray dress, 
which suited her as well as the silks and satins of 
earlier days ever could have done. Her step was 
lofty, her port worthy of an empress. 

“Fit for earth or fit for Heaven,” he murmured in- 
voluntarily as he looked on her, — “ fit for one because 
fit for the other.” He could see that “ the tranquil God, 
who tranquillizes all things,” had sent calm upon her 
life. 

As she walked by Judge Elliott’s stately house, he 
saw a man go out and speak to her, — a man, to whose 
life calmness, unless it be the calmness of despair, was 
yet to come ; a man, old beyond his forty-eight years, 
sorrowful, downcast, lonely. He saw this man’s face 
brighten as she talked with him, and, finally, he saw 
her gather from the hedge a rose full of dew and 
fragrance, and give it to him, and then go calmly on her 
way, leaving some of the glory of her presence behind 
her 


THE JUDGE WIFE. 


287 


He went slowly back to the inn. 

“ That was Judge Elliott,” said the landlord, meeting 
him as he approached. “ Poor things ! Poor things ! 
I s’pose it’ll be all squared up and come out right up 
there^^ and he lifted his old, weather-beaten face to the 
calm blue of the summer morning sky. Did he see, 
through and beyond the azure, a glimpse of shining 
turrets, the gold and pearl and amethyst of the city 
not made with hands? 

It is just ten years since my friend, to whom the 
Connecticut innkeeper related this strange story, re- 
counted it to me. It interested me deeply at the time, 
and it was many months before I ceased to think of it. 
It was obscured, at length, by the interests of my own 
life, and passed out of my heart as such tales will, 
when we have never seen the faces or heard the voices 
of the people. Perhaps it would never have come back 
to me, but for a strange chance, or Providence. Look- 
ing over, in an idle hour, the deaths and marriages in a 
file of English papers, sent me by a friend, my eyes fell 
on ibis : — 

“Died, at Birmingham, Susan Armstrong, wife or 
widow of Alfred Armstrong.” 

With feelings stronger' than an idle whim I marked 
this item, and sent it to the address of the man whom, 
in this “ ower true tale,” I have chosen to call Jacob 
Elliott, but who was known by another name to the 
denizens of Hartford County. Perhaps he already was 
aware of his first wife’s decease, and had wooed and 


288 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


wedded again the Elizabeth of his love ; or, perhaps, one 
or both of them may have gone long ago to the land 
where, we are told, is neither marrying nor giving in 
marriage, hut where, I love to think, those who love 
truly here will love on for ever. I know not. Heaven 
is higher than earth, and nothing is left to blind chance. 
Those two were God’s care, for they were His children. 
Pray for them, all kind souls ! 


A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 



E were two girls together, Margaret and 1. 


^ ^ Our mother was dead, and now that we were 
through school, we kept house for our father, and were 
under very little restraint of any kind. Margaret, 
our friends said, was her mother’s child, I my father’s. 
I had, in fact, inherited all that I was from him. 
Strong, muscular organization ; black eyes and straight 
black hair ; olive skin ; firm, yet pleasure-loving lips ; 
haughty forehead; fiery, yet easily soothed temper; 
warm afi*ections, — these were his, and he had given 
them all to me, his oldest daughter. 

Neither of us could remember our mother, but a por- 
trait of her, taken just before her marriage, would have 
answered equally well for Margaret. She died at the 
birth of this her youngest child, passing from earth 
gently and sweetly, like a flower which exhales its soul 
in perfume. I have been told that my father’s agony 
was terrible. Grief with him was as the storms in tropic 
climates ; it swept every thing before it with a resist- 
less flood, to which neither reason nor religion could 
for the time oppose any barrier. For weeks he could 
not bear to look at the infant thus left him. When at 


290 


SOME WOMENS S HEARTS, 


length the calm succeeded to the tempest, and he 
heard, in the quiet, the still, small voice from hf>.aven, 
he learned resignation, and turned for comfort to the 
ties which yet bound him to life. The little, white 
thing, lying upon pillows in the nursery or nestling 
to a stranger’s bosom, looked up to him with the eyes 
of his early love. He named her Margaret then, be- 
cause it means pearl, and no other name seemed so 
fitting for the frail, fair babe. Besides, he had given 
for her all he had, and to him, therefore, she was indeed 
a pearl of great price. 

My sister was fair. She looked like the women 
whom the early painters chose for models when they 
painted angels. She had hair of tawny gold, — you 
saw such if ever you paid your respects to Page’s 
Venus. Her eyes were, in color, like the sky where its 
blue is deep and cloudless, and a light shone in their 
depths tender and tranquil as a star. Moreover, she 
had small and delicate features, a mouth to which 
smiles came not too often, but like returning children 
to their home, — you have seen faces where the smiles 
were aliens, and you felt as if they required a safe- 
conduct, — a skin transparent and faultlessly smooth ; 
a shape tall, slender, and graceful, and you have Mar- 
garet, as charming a blonde as the most ardent admirer 
of that type of beauty could desire. She was firm, 
too ; those fair women always are. Her character had 
plenty of tone and fibre. It is we brunettes who are 
easily moved and governed, after all. I could outstorm 
twenty like Margaret. While she sat calm and quiet 


A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 291 


and apparently submissive, I could raise a tempest and 
put the whole house in commotion. But I always 
ended by doing precisely as she wished. We passion- 
ate souls always yield, if only we find people firm 
enough to remain unmoved by us, quietly persistent 
in their own will. 

I think it was because Margaret and I were so difier- 
ent that we were friends in the true sense of the word. 
I suppose sisters always love each other. There is 
duty, natural affection, and all that ; you know what, if 
you’ve read Mrs. Ellis. But they are not usually 
friends. Ripening on the same vine, they are as like 
as two peas. There is no charm of novelty. Their 
society cloys each other like sweet wine. In our case 
the wine was spicy and pungent. We could never 
thoroughly analyze its taste, and returned each time to 
the draught with new zest and new curiosity. 

You know something about us now, and I will pro- 
ceed to tell you what we did. 

It was early in the month of June, and a leap-year. 
We were living very quietly out of town. Every 
afternoon at five o’clock papa drove out, his business 
being over at that hour, and often brought with him 
some mercantile friend to dine and go back in the even- 
ing, or, if he were not a family man, to occupy a spare 
chamber and drive into town with him in the morning. 
Margaret and I never saw much of these visitors be- 
yond making ourselves agreeable to them at dinner. 
We voccd them old fogies, and never imagined any 
possibilities of entertainment from their society. We 


292 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


saw very few young people either. We had so many 
sources of amusement at home and in each other that 
we did not trouble ourselves about beaux and parties, 
and were enjoying a pleasant season as grown-up 
daughters at home, which is very rare, now that girls 
are permitted to step from the school-room to the ball- 
room, to waste their first bloom in the dissipations of 
fashionable life. 

We loved fun dearly, both of us, and that June we 
determined to seek it in a new and not exactly legiti- 
mate channel. The most frequent of papa’s guests was 
a Mr. Thorndike, — Ignatius Thorndike. He was a 
man some years younger than our father, but we 
thought he could not be much less than forty. We 
were respectively seventeen and nineteen at that time, 
and forty seems fearfully old to girls in their teens. 
We had never thought much about Mr. Thorndike, — 
he was the gravest of all those grave merchants, — - 
but we knew that he was unmarried. We had heard 
that he was too poor to marry when he was young, 
and, now that he had been successful in business, even 
beyond his hopes, he did not dare to seek a wife, 
because he had lost all faith in his own ability to 
^,./ease, and feared lest he should be accepted for the 
luxuries it was in his power to bestow. 

To this grave merchant we resolved to send a letter, 
making the freedom of leap-year our excuse, and so 
wording it that it might proYe the commencement of a 
correspondence which we thought would be vastly 
entertaining I hardly kno\\ which of us first suggested 


A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 293 


the idea, but we were both quite carried away with it. 
The composition of this precious document was our 
joint work. I have retained a copy of it, which I have 
by me to-day. It reads thus : — 

“ Mr. Thorndike, — I have hesitated long before 
writing you this note. I should not venture to do so 
now were it not that I am emboldened by the license 
accorded to leap-year. To a different man I would not 
write it for worlds, but I am sure your character is of 
too high a tone for you to pursue a correspondence 
merely for amusement or adventure. If you think I 
am indelicate in addressing you at all, — if you do not 
desire my friendship, you will let the matter drop here, 
— you will never reply to me, or bestow a second 
thought on one who will, in that case, strive to think 
no more of you. But should you really value the 
regard of a girl who is fearless enough thus to disobey 
the recognized laws of society ; honest enough to show 
you her heart as it is; good enough, at least, to feel 
your goodness in her inmost soul, — then you will 
write. Then, perhaps, we shall know each other better, 
and the friendship thus unconventionally begun may 
brighten both our lives. Remember I trust to your 
honor not to answer this letter if you disapprove of my 
course in sending it, — if by so doing I have forfeited 
your respect. Should you reply, let it be within three 
days, and address, 

“Gratia Livermore, 


“ Boston P. OP 


294 


SOME WOMEN^B HEARTS, 


It fell to Margaret’s lot to copy the epistle, as she 
wrote far more neatly than I. In fact, she was my 
superior in every thing requiring patience or grace. 
We sent the missive, and, for three successive days 
after its probable reception, we despatched a messenger 
into town to inquire for letters for Miss Livermore. 
None came, however, and we at length concluded that 
our attempt at fun had proved an ignominious failure. 
All that delicate flattery had been wasted. Most 
likely Mr. Thorndike despised his unknown corre- 
spondent too thoroughly even to be amused by her. 
We were vexed, both of us. We called him a fussy, 
cross-grained old bachelor, and said, even to each other, 
that we didn’t care ; but we did care, we were mortified 
and disappointed. That afternoon, when papa came 
out to dinner, we noticed as he drove up the avenue 
that he was not alone. We were both of us watching 
from our window, but Margaret was the first to recog- 
nize the visitor. 

‘‘That odious Mr. Thorndike ! ” she cried. “Well, 
thank fortune, Laura, he never would think of sus- 
pecting either of us. Scorn to reply to that letter 
though he may, I’ll wager he’d give at least one bright 
eagle to know who wrote it.” 

We both of us dressed ourselves as tastefully as 
we could. Mr. Thorndike’s well-known avoidance of 
women made us resolve that he should at least think 
his friend’s daughters not ill-looking. 

Margaret’s dress was a pale rose-color, just the shade 
of the spring peach blossoms. It lent its own soft 


A LETTER, AND WHAT GAME OF IT, 295 


fiush to her cheeks. A spray of wisteria was in her 
golden Lraids, and her arms, with the hair bracelets on 
them, shone fair through her thin sleeves. 

I was in white. It toned me down better than any 
thing else. In fact, I looked well in it. I twisted a few 
roses in my hair, and put a bunch of them at my waist. 
Great hoops of barbaric gold were in my ears, and 
bracelets of the same were upon my arms. I liked 
Margaret’s looks, and she liked mine. We were too 
dissimilar to have any petty jealousies. 

When we went into the drawing-room Mr. Thorn- 
dike rose. 

“Good afternoon. Miss Otis; good afternoon. Miss 
Margaret,” he said, as he placed chairs for us. He 
added a pleasant remark about being so frequent a 
guest, and then returned, apparently quite forgetful of 
us, to his conversation with papa. 

W e left them at the dinner-table at the earliest pos- 
sible moment, and went out of doors. The grounds 
around our mansion were well kept and spacious. Papa 
liked breathing room, and did not choose to be over- 
looked by his neighbors. 

We sought a nook which we both loved, where a 
dusky clump of pines crowned a hill. In the centre 
was a rustic seat, resting on which we could look out 
between the tree-boles toward the west. The air was 
full of the rich, balsamic odor of the pines. Under our 
feet the fallen leaves were piled so soft and thick 
you could not hear a footstep. The winds among the 
boughs talked together all day overhead, and our 


296 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS, 


hearts interpreted them ; and now, looking afar over 
other hills, we saw the crimson glory of the sunset. We 
both, for different reasons, liked to watch it. I, because 
it seemed to belong to me. I could fancy myself in 
harmony with those gorgeous colorings, those fantastic 
clouds. The phantom shapes hurried on without rest 
were like my thoughts ; changeful as my moods ; way- 
ward as my life. Margaret liked them by the law of 
contrast. She was self-centred and all rest, — a still 
noon, or a midnight lit by a full moon. She enjoyed 
vivid colors, hurrying storms, sudden changes, — they 
deepened the sense of her own calm. Silent, with the 
dreamy speculativeness of untried girls, our hearts were 
questioning the future which seemed hiding itself be^ 
hind the clouds and the sunset. 

“ I think it is a ship. Do you see the spars and the 
trim masts?” 

W e both looked up, and there beside us stood Mr. 
Thorndike. We had not heard his step on the soft 
pine leaves. He stood there, looking, as he always 
looked, calm and grave and strong, — much such a 
nature as Margaret’s, only deepened by masculine ele- 
ments.. There was enthusiasm in his eyes, softened by 
half-poetic melancholy. They were fixed, not on us, 
but steadily on the sunset. Perhaps the light in them 
was a reflection from that crimson distance. He went 
on speaking, as much to himself, apparently, as to us. 

“Yes, it is a ship, surely. See, it is sailing on a 
flame-colored river, and the port whither it tends no 
man knoweth. Life is like it. 


A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 297 


' Our beginnings, as our endings, 

Rest with the life-sender/ 

We were not, we are, and we shall be. I always liked 
pictures in the sunset, as in the embers. The cloud- 
pictures are best though, for they are on a grander 
scale. Theie is more room for fancy to fill up.” 

I stole a glance at Margaret. His discourse, so un- 
practical, so far removed from business, was as much a 
surprise to her as to me. But it was in harmony with 
her thoughts ; while at first I did not like it, because it 
seemed incongruous with the man. 

“ I never heard that castles in Spain were merchant- 
able property,” I said, with perhaps a latent irony in my 
tones. Mr. Thorndike looked at me, and the poetic 
enthusiasm in his gray eyes was replaced by the 
shrewd analytic expression which betokened the keen 
man of business. 

“Very true. Miss Otis. You think, and justly, that 
castle-building is a curious pastime for one who has 
been the architect of any thing so rugged and real as 
his own fortune. You are right. It was certainly 
quite a difierent subject upon which I designed to 
speak to you. In advance, I must implore you both 
to forgive my plainness of speech. I am a business 
man, little used to ladies’ society, and accustomed to 
say my say in the fewest and most simple words. I 
received a letter three days ago signed ‘ Gratia Liver- 
more.’ ” 

Margaret was pale, with a look like marble in her 
face. I felt my own cheeks turn crimson. Angry 


298 


SOME WOMEN'^8 HEARTS. 


tears rushed to my eyes, but I forced them back. I 
beat the ground nervously with my foot. It is a trick 
I have, when I need great self-control and yet my 
impatience must find some outlet. ‘‘Well?” I said, 
inquiringly. 

“ W ell,” he calmly proceeded, “ I knew the hand- 
writing. I have often seen Miss Margaret’s delicate 
chirography in her father’s possession. I recognized 
it, and I recognized you in the composition. Miss 
Otis.” 

“ And so you despise us, and have come to tell us 
so ? ” I spoke defiantly, and looked into his face with 
eyes which strove to scorn his displeasure. 

“No, Miss Otis; a moment’s consideration would 
convince you that if I despised you I should surely not 
have taken the trouble to speak to you about this mat- 
ter. I believe I am just, — just and honest; but I do 
not pretend to be a man of disinterested benevolence. 
Your father is my best friend, and among my few 
female acquaintances none stand so high as his daugh- 
ters in my regard. I was therefore the more pained 
that you should have written this letter. I was not 
influenced by personal feeling. I quite passed over the 
light esteem in which you must have held me to think 
my vanity so susceptible, so easily touched. I thought 
only of yourselves. Had you had a mother this 
would never have happened; or, if it had, I should 
have found it hard to forgive you. But I always held 
that the best man in the world is not fit to have the 
sole charge of daughters. He is away from them too 


A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 299 


mucli ; he does not understand their tastes or their 
temperaments. When I read that letter how I pitied 
you, because you had been left motherless. Perhaps I 
should have taken no notice of it, had I not thought 
my friendship for your father imposed upon me a duty 
toward his daughters. It was but a girlish freak, and 
its repetition was scarcely to be assumed as a prob- 
ability. Still I wanted to say to you that no young 
girl can be too careful how she trusts her handwriting 
in the keeping of any man. In good society an anony- 
mous letter is considered almost a crime; and as^to 
letters under a lady’s own name, perhaps I am conser- 
vative, but it is my opinion that, except upon business 
matters, they should never be written to any gentleman 
save a near relative or a betrothed husband. I have 
no right to say all this, but I have spoken as a 
brother would, to you who have no brother. Am I 
forgiven ? ” 

Margaret went up to him and offered him her hand. 
Her aspect was pale still, but no longer like marble in 
its repose. Her lips quivered. Her soul shone trans- 
figuringly through her face, and kindled her eyes into 
tenderness, which her rising tears served to heighten. 
Her voice was full of feeling. 

“Not forgiven, sir, there is no need of that ; but you 
have shown yourself our true friend, and we thank 
you, — I and my sister. Do not fear that we shall 
fail to profit by your kindness.” 

He held her hand a moment, then he placed in it 
our silly letter and turned away. 


800 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


I caught the sheet from her, tore it into fragments, 
and scattered them to the winds. 

“ What would I give,” I cried, “ that we had never 
written it. To have disgraced ourselves so in Mr. 
Thorndike’s estimation, — it is too bad. I shall never 
bear to see him again ; shall you, Margaret ? ” 

‘‘ Certainly : I shall see him with far more pleasure 
than before ; for I know now what a true man he is. 
I did not think one met such out of books. 1 can 
almost forgive myself for having written the letter, 
because it has shown me such a noble page of human 
nature.” 

That evening, despite our mortification, was a very 
pleasant one. Mr. Thorndike had never before taken 
such pains to make himself agreeable. We found 
hitherto unsuspected delight in his conversation. He 
had thought much and read to good purpose. He had 
lived his forty years with open and observing eyes. 

Music was proposed after a while. I “perfoimed” 
well, — so said my teachers and the few critics who had 
heard me. I played difficult music; grand, stately 
symphonies from Mozart and Beethoven; and Mr. 
Thorndike listened — he could not have deceived me 

— with the soul of a genuine music-lover. Margaret 
succeeded me, and she sang a few ballads, — simple 
Scottish lays, solemn and tender with love and death, 

— accompanying herself with low, sweet chords, which 
one might imagine the wordless melody of an accord- 
ant spirit. 

“ Margaret’s music is best,” said papa, wiping the 


A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT, 301 


tears from his eyes when she concluded, and I knew 
she had been singing some of our mother’s old- 
fashioned songs, calling back the romance and melody 
of his youth. Mr. Thorndike said nothing, but I 
thought I discerned a treacherous mistiness in his eyes ; 
and when she was through he closed the piano, as if, 
having heard those ballads, he wished to hear nothing 
more. Presently he retired. 

During that summer we learned to know our new 
fi-iend well, and we both liked him. We had respect 
for his opinions, and even for his prejudices. We 
revered the unswerving integrity of his life, and we 
found more pleasure in his society than we had ever 
found in any man’s before. True, we did not know 
many with whom to compare him. We were not yet 
“ out,” and young men were seldom among papa’s 
visitors. Perhaps it was well for us, before we went 
into general society, to become so well acquainted with 
a strong, true man like Ignatius Thorndike. After 
that it would be hard to impose upon us counterfeit 
coin in lieu of sterling gold. 

I think he took all the more pleasure in our ac- 
quaintance because his life had heretofore been too 
much occupied with business for him to cultivate friend- 
ships among women. He was certainly very attentive . 
to us. After dinner we used to leave papa to his nap 
and the evening papers, and wander off, we three, into 
the woods and dells which lay not far from our home. 
None of us knew enough of artificial enjoyments to spoil 
our zest for the simple pleasures of our quiet life. Wo 


302 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


rejoiced, like happy children, over a rare flower, a curious 
leaf, or a pretty stone. We talked about every thing, — 
politics, religion, poetry, fashion, business, and finally we 
got one day to talking of love. Mr. Thorndike had no 
patience with flirtations. He spoke of them in terms 
of unmeasured severity. He also inveighed bitterly 
against the selfishness of many marriages. He could 
not understand, he said, how a man could ever venture 
to ask a woman not half so old as himself to marry 
him. Only the strongest love, he held, could make 
marriage safe or happy, and certainly strong love on 
the wife’s side, where there was such disparity of 
age, was too rare to be reckoned among the proba- 
'bilities. 

“ And you think it is wrong to marry without a love 
as romantic as the love of novels ? ” asked Margaret. 

“ I think. Miss Margaret, that Hawthorne has written 
a great many strong and true words, but nothing truer 
then when he said, ‘ Let men tremble to win the hand 
of woman, unless they win along with it the utmost 
passion of her heart; else it may be their miserable 
fortune, when some mightier touch than their own may 
have awakened all her sensibilities, to be reproached 
even for the calm content, the marble image of happiness, 
which they will have imposed upon her as the warm 
reality.’ There are women whom w^e know instinctively 
to be above all mercenary motives in marriage ; but 
perhaps such, from their very tenderness and purity, 
would be the most easily persuaded to believe that to 
be love which was only its cold counterfeit. And when 


A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 303 


such a wife awoke from her delusion to the knowledge 
of all that might have been and was not, I should pity 
her husband, if a true man, even more than herself; 
inasmuch as I believe it would be easier to bear through 
life the burden of an unsatisfied hope than for a gener- 
ous husband to feel that he had snatched the possibility 
of happiness from the woman of his choice, — that he 
had condemned the best part of her nature to perpetual 
solitude. I allude now to cases where a man’s only 
fault is want of consideration, selfish haste, neglecting 
to make himself certain of his absolute empire over the 
heart before he accepts the hand. Those other cases, 
where the sacrifice of a heart for wealth and a name is 
deliberatdy made and accepted, are beneath even the 
discussion of high-minded men and women.” 

Margaret had listened silently while he had spoken ; 
now she drew her shawl around her and shivered. 

‘‘ It is chilly,” she said. “ I feel the damp. Let us 
go in.” 

At the time this struck me as singular, for Margaret 
was rarely cold. I used often to envy her insensibility 
to the cold of winter or heat of summer ; her tempera- 
ment so calm, or so perfectly balanced, that the weather 
had no hold on her. For myself, I liked nothing but 
sunshine. Few days were too warm for me ; but I 
suffered from cold like an East Indian, — grew aguish 
in the slightest draught, and believed devoutly in fur- 
naces and hot air. But I was not even chilly, now. 
However, we obeyed Margj^ret’s motion, and the subject 
of love and marriage was not afterward renewed be- 


804 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


tween us three. It was clear enough, from what Mr. 
Thorndike had said, that he would never seek to marry 
a young girl ; and even had we been, which we were 
not, match-seeking young ladies, it was warning enough 
to us to think of him only as the friend he had proved 
himself. 

His attentions during that pleasant summer were 
pretty equally divided between us ; if any thing, the 
larger proportion fell to my share. We did not go into 
town very early that year. We could not bear to 
return to brick walls and paved streets while Nature 
was holding her high festival of harvest time. Oh, 
those glorious October days ! Grain waving on the 
hill-tops ; grapes purpling on the vines ; fruit blushing 
on the boughs ; fire-tinted leaves rustling slowly down- 
ward ; prismatic haze floating over all. If you never 
were in the country in October, you have missed some- 
thing you can hardly aflTord to forego. 

It was November before we were settled in our house 
in town, — a pleasant house, large and commodious, 
looking upon the Common, where the waving of the 
tree-boughs, and the Frog Pond, with its blue water 
md fleets of juvenile ships, do their pleasant best tow- 
ard a little fiction of country life, — a sort of vignette. 
A maiden sister of my father was sent for, and pro- 
moted over our heads to the post of housekeeper. This 
was in deference to the proprieties, for we were to re- 
ceive company this winter, and go into society, and 
needed a chaperon. 

At first Mr. Thorndike came to see us frequently ; 


A LETTEE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 305 


but as soon as we had collected round us a gay circle of 
acquaintances he began quietly to withdraw himself 
fi’om our intimacy. Out of town, where there had been 
no fear of his attentions interfering with any one else, 
he had given us most of his leisure ; but now he evi- 
dently thought the young men who surrounded us must 
needs be more agreeable. That this was not the case I 
could have answered, — for myself, at least. I missed 
him sadly. Compared with him, the young men of our 
circle — youths well-born and well-bred, who had never 
known the slightest necessity for exertion — seemed 
sadly vapid and uninteresting. I began to suspect 
myself of quite as much regard for him as any prudent 
damsel would care to bestow on one who, by his own 
showing, was not a marrying man. 

If Margaret missed our old friend as much as I did 
she made no sign. Reserved, self-contained, and cold 
as she really was, to all but the few, she was so sweet, 
and gentle, and courteous in society that she was very 
popular, — far more so than I, who carried my heart 
upon my sleeve. It was not long before the attentions 
of one, at least, of her admirers began to seem serious 
to me, an interested looker-on. 

He was a young divine, of the. poetico-rom antic 
school, who was just then making quite a sensation. 
He was handsome ; graceful in manners as in person ; 
with one of those eclectic natures of which saith the 
proverb, “All’s fish that comes to that net.” Milton, 
Shakspeare, godly George Herbert, gentle Elia, Festus 
Bailey, Carlyle, Dickens, — who was there, ancient or 


306 


SOME WOMEN ->8 HEARTS, 


modern, serious or profane, poet or essayist, who had 
not contributed to enrich his sermons? 

“ Words, dears,” said papa, when we had coaxed him 
to go and hear Mr. Staunton ; “ a great many very fine 
words ; but where is the soul ? I’m too old-fashioned 
to judge, perhaps, but I confess I like the old grey- 
beards who were young when I was ; who learned their 
theology from the Bible ; and who utter their own 
thoughts in their own simple phrase, a great deal 
better.” 

Upon this Margaret defended the young minister 
warmly, and when I said to her, after we were alone, 
that I had no idea she was so much interested in Mr. 
Staunton, she colored, and, with more of temper than I 
had almost ever seen in her, answered that I had no 
right to infer any special interest on her part, but she 
did like to see every one dealt with fairly. 

At all events, there was presently no doubt of Mr. 
Staunton’s estimation of her. He showed it by many 
unequivocal demonstrations, and yet not in any way 
which made it possible for Margaret to repulse him, or 
obliged her, on the other hand, to encourage him. His 
attentions were such as friend might show to friend, 
but accompanied by looks and tones which evidently 
pointed home their moral. I do not know whether 
all this was noticed by outside observers ; I thought 
not. It surprised me a little when, one evening, Mr. 
Thorndike spoke to me upon the subject. 

He happened to call when Mr. Staunton was there. 
Margaret was singing in the music room, which opened 


A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 807 


out of the parlor. Of course the minister was bending 
over her, and for a few moments Mr. Thorndike was 
alone with me. 

A little while we both listened to Margaret’s voice, 
which floated out to us clear and sweet. My companion 
had been leaning his head on his hand, thus concealing 
his face ; but when he looked up I saw an unfamiliar 
trouble in his deep eyes. He spoke hoarsely : — 

“ Is she, is Margaret going to marry Mr. Staunton, 
Laura? Perhaps I have no right to ask, but you know 
you have treated me almost like a brother.” 

“ 1 have no idea,” I answered, honestly. “You have 
seen as much, I imagine, as I have. He is very atten- 
tive, but she is reserved, even to me. I have no means 
of guessing her intentions.” 

He tried to smile, but it was a ghastly failure. 

“ Well,” he said, “God bless her, whomever she mar- 
ries, wherever her lot is cast. She will decide wisely. 
It is absurd for me to question it. Her own pure in- 
stincts will not mislead her ; but Mr. Staunton, — Laura, 
I can never think he is good enough for her. Take my 
word for it, there is poverty of heart and soul beneath 
that fine exterior. The soil is too poor for wholesome- 
grain where all that exotic luxuriance of transplanted 
flowers springs up.” 

In a few moments more he left. When I urged him 
to stay and see my sister, he answered in a voice I 
should scarcely have known, it was so constrained and 
unnatural : — 

“ Hot to-night. To-night, at least, you must excuse 


me. 


308 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS 


I needed no more words to tell me that he loved 
Margaret with a love as pure and as strong as his 
manly heart. Had he so loved me, I was conscious 
that I should have returned it. I esteemed him as I 
esteemed no other man. Perhaps I had unwittingly 
striven to please him ; but it was here, as in all else, I 
who had failed, and Margaret, my calm, pale, firm 
sister, who had won what she seemed not to value 
after all. Well, thank Heaven and the common sense 
I inherited from my father, I should not die for love. I 
had no story-book sentimentality about it. If a good 
man, like Ignatius Thorndike, had truly loved me, and 
Heaven had separated us, I cannot answer for my for- 
titude ; but, while I recognized the possible hold he 
might have had on my heart, my affections not having 
been sought, were still in my own keeping, and I was 
quite capable of being a true sister to him, and entering 
with unselfish warmth into his love for Margaret and 
all its accompanying hopes and fears. 

That evening when I was alone with my sister, I told 
her all that had passed. I did not omit to describe the 
expressions which had swept over Mr. Thorndike’s face 
or the inflections of his voice. She listened silently. 
Her back was toward me as she stood letting dN:,wn her 
hair before the mirror. I thought her fingers trembled 
a little, but I could not be sure. When I had con- 
cluded she turned round for a moment. I could not 
read her face distinctly, it was shrouded so by the 
golden hair sweeping round it ; but I could see that 
her eyes glittered, whether with tears or pride, and 


A LETTER, AND WHAT GAME OF IT. 309 

that her cheeks were glowing. Her voice was steady 
and unmoved as usual. 

“ Thank you, Laura,” she said, quietly. It is un- 
necessary to speak to Mr. Thorndike again upon the 
subject, but should any one ask you hereafter whether 
I am going to marry Mr. Staunton you can say no ; 
as I shall certainly tell the gentleman himself if he 
ever gives me an opportunity.” 

She said no more. I longed to sound her as to 
her sentiments toward Mr. Thorndike, but I could 
think of no way. Open as a child in all her acts, Mar- 
garet was reserved about her feelings ; and this reserve 
had even grown upon her of late. She went on un- 
dressing as tranquilly as if I had not told her that 
Mr. Thorndike loved her, and then knelt down, with 
her childlike instinct of reverence, to say her prayers, 
for neither great grief nor overwhelming joy had as 
yet taught her how to pray. 

We went out of town early in the spring, as we had 
come in late ; but before we went Mr. Staunton’s visits 
had nearly ceased. I conjectured, though Margaret did 
not tell me, that he had offered her his hand and been 
rejected. His sermons about this time took a melan- 
choly tone. , He dwelt much on the fact that we ar^ 
pilgrims and strangers, and have no continuing city 
here ; he bewailed the vanity of life and the unstable 
nature of earthly hopes and dreams. He quoted largely 
from that school of bards whose constant longing 
seems to be to have the grass green and the snow 
white above their graves ; the storms whistling and the 


310 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


\ 


flowers blooming over them, all at once. In this phase 
of emotional development he was more popular than 
ever, especially with the young ladies of his flock. 
The dear creatures seemed to have an affinity for tears, 
and take naturally to lamentations ; and as not a few 
were rich and some handsome, he was in a fair way to 
console himself in time. 

When we were settled in our suburban home we 
missed Mr. Thorndike’s frequent visits still more than 
in the city. There was a different reason now for his 
not coming to us. It was the spring of 1858. The 
commercial earthquake which had commenced in the 
fall had been rumbling all winter, and bursting out 
now and then to overwhelm its victims with a financial 
ruin sudden and terrible. Toward spring the failures 
grew perhaps less frequent but more severe ; for firms 
which had struggled so long, if they went down at 
last, wrought a devastation as fearful as when Samson, 
blind and old and persecuted long, pulled down upon 
himself the temple of Dagon. Few merchants had 
time for much social civility. Jt was all they could do 
to fight their way in the hand-to-hand conflict going on 
around them. Papa said Mr. Thorndike was struggling 
with the rest, — that he had a great many bad debts, 
and it was doubtful how long he would be able to meet 
his engagements. 

Couldn’t you help him ? ” I asked, when he told us 
this. 

Papa shook his head. 

“ I offered to, but he obstinately refused to involve 


A LETTER, AND WHAT GAME OF IT 311 


me in any way. ‘No one can do more in these times,’ 
he said, ‘than look out for himself. You have children, 
and I have none. You are an older man than I, and 
not used as I am to struggling and privation. I shall 
remember all my life this friendship, when so few 
would dare to be friendly ; but I must stand or fall 
alone, — I don’t know which it will be.’ He is a noble 
fellow, girls ; not many like him in these days, when 
people hold honor and faith and friendship as mere 
fictions.” 

I turned to look at Margaret. I wanted to see how 
she was affected by this praise, but she had gone out of 
the room. 

That day papa, not feeling very well, did not go to 
town. After dinner we were all together in the dining- 
room. Papa was at the window, where the sunset 
brightened his silver hair. Margaret was half-sitting, 
half-lying on a lounge in the back part of the room, 
and I was on a stool beside her. I think we were all 
partly asleep, papa smoking and watching the blue 
rings float up and away, and we girls dreaming each 
her own dreams. The sound of a horse galloping up 
the avenue aroused us. We heard the rider dismount 
and speak to Patrick, who was at work on a flower-bed 
not far from the house. Then, the doors being open, he 
came without ringing into the hall, and along to the 
dining-room. It was Mr. Thorndike. He evidently 
saw no one but my father, and neither Margaret nor 
I made any movement. He went straight up to papa 
and stood before him. His face was very white, but 


312 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


calm. His voice did not tremble, but there was a 
sadness in it deeper than tears. 

“Mr. Otis,” he said, “my struggle is over. My 
paper was protested to-day. These last failures have 
been too much for me. I have done my best, but the 
fruit of my life’s toil is gone. I shall give up every 
cent, and no man can lose much by me ; but I must 
begin again at the foot of the ladder, I who am no 
longer young. But, thank Heaven, I have no one 
dearer than myself to suffer through my misfortune. 
1 have repined at my loneliness sometimes, but it com- 
forts me now.” 

Papa was betrayed by his sympathy into suggesting 
a thought to his friend which he would never have 
accepted for himself. 

“But can’t you save enough to go into business 
again ? It is custom ; every one does it nowadays. 
No one gives up every thing.” 

Mr. Thorndike smiled with an indescribable expres- 
sion of patient pride. 

“ Dear sir, you would be the very last to temporize 
with duty yourself. No, I must preserve my honor at 
all costs. I shall go into business again, I hope ; but it 
will be as a poor man, as poor as I was twenty years 
ago. You must feel that this is right.” 

“ It is right.” It was Margaret who spoke. ^ I had 
never seen her so stirred from her usual calmness. 
She sprang from the sofa and walked to Ignatius 
Thorndike’s side. “Yes, my friend, you are right; 
you could do no other way. There is no absolute ruin 


A LETTER, AND WHAT GAME OF IT, 313 

in life save the ruin of integrity ; no utter wreck but 
the wreck of honor. Gold is tried and purified by 
fire ; only the baser metals are destroyed.” 

He held her hand, her white, delicate hand, that 
did not look as if there were any strength in it to 
labor. He glanced at her figure, so slender and 
so graceful, arrayed with such costly simplicity, — a 
woman whom it seemed no poor man could venture 
to win. Then he looked steadfastly in her eyes. What 
did he read there ? They were luminous, as on that 
night when he had given her back our silly leap-year 
letter, — when she had first discovered how good he was. 
A flush like the dawning was on her cheeks. A noble 
pride, kindled rather for him than herself, shone in her 
face. She looked flt for a hero’s bride. But what read 
Ignatius Thorndike in her eyes ? He held her hand for 
a moment, gazing at her steadily. Then he said, with 
less composure than he had shown before, — 

“ God bless you, Margaret ; I cannot even thank 
you,” and turned away. As he went out of the door I, 
who was nearest to it, heard him murmur, “ I could have 
borne all but this. This makes the cup too bitter.” 

I understood then that Margaret’s soul had revealed 
itself to him in her look, — that he felt sure of her love. 
I know his first, despairing thought was that he could 
never marry her ; that love had come too late, — come 
but to mock him with tantalizing glimpses of what might 
have been. I was not troubled, however, for I had 
faith in the true hearts of them both. I believe that 
when two belong to each other so that apart their being 
14 


314 


SOME WOMEN'^S BEAUTS. 


is incomplete, — so that, in life or death, no other could 
usurp the throne, — it is seldom possible to separate 
them, even in this world. Through pain and weariness 
it may be ; over paths rough with rocks and thorns, or 
lying among shadows ; still, were it from far antipodes, 
they will draw near to each other. By and by Mr. 
Thorndike would come to understand that to deprive 
Margaret of himself, of his love, would be to do her a 
heavier wrong than to subject her to one meal a day 
and an attic. Not, however, that I apprehended any 
such romantic catastrophe. The wife of a business 
man, who possesses strong health and active energies, 
can never know hopeless poverty. Besides, papa was 
well enough able to assist them. There would be only 
he and I left ; he could give my sister her fortune now. 

I did not mention any of my speculations to Marga- 
ret. She did not allude to Mr. Thorndike beyond a 
simple expression of her sympathy in his misfortunes ; 
and I respected her reticent delicacy. We did not see 
him again for more than a month. From time to time 
I inquired of papa concerning his affairs. He had be- 
haved nobly, — given up every thing, and refused an 
offer from papa, and two other of his warm friends, to 
lend him a sufficient capital to start again. He had 
sturdily adhered to his preference for independence, 
and was going to establish himself in a commission 
business. I believe I exulted in him — in the integrity 
which no temptations could shake, the self-respect which 
no misfortunes could lessen — as much as if his lovf* 
had been mine. 


A LETTER, AND WHAT GAME OF IT, 


815 


It was June when he came to us again, — just a 
year, as I happened to remember, from the day at which 
I dated the real beginning of our friendship. He looked 
a little worn by anxiety and labor, but hopeful and res- 
olute notwithstanding. For the first time he asked 
Margaret to walk with him, and omitted me in the in- 
vitation. I saw them, a few moments afterward, from 
my window, pacing slowly under the trees, her light 
dress gleaming through the summer greenery. They 
were gone a long time. When they returned Margaret 
came directly upstairs. A tender, womanly light was 
in her eyes ; an expression of entire happiness upon her 
face. She sat down beside me, and laid her head 
against my shoulder, with a caressing manner which 
was unusual in her; for, though deeply and fervently 
affectionate, she was seldom demonstrative. 

“I am not half worthy of him, Laura,” she said, 
hiding her eyes from me ; “ not half worthy of being 
Ignatius Thorndike’s wife ; but I have promised to be 
so. I don’t know what he sees in me, that noble man, 
— the best man I ever knew, — strong and true as an 
angel.” 

I could tell very well what he saw in her, — a bride 
whom any man might be proud to win ; but those who 
love truly are always humble. I did not dispute the 
point ; I only rallied her a little. 

‘‘ Do 1 hear you rightly, Margaret ? ” I asked, with 
apparent incredulity. “ Why, don’t you remember 
all Mr. Thorndike said, last summer, about men who 
asked women a great deal younger than themselves to 


316 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS, 


marry them, — how wrong he thought it, how haz- 
ardous ? ” 

“That was when they asked hastily; when they 
wooed women who were not sure of their own hearts ; 
wh^n they married without knowing, beyond doubt, 
that their wives loved them ” 

“ And he has no doubt of your love, then ? ” 

“ Thank Heaven, none ; nor I of his.” 

Her sweetness and frankness had quite overruled my 
attempts to tease her, and banished the desire. I caught 
her in my arms instead, and wept over her passionately, 
— not, Heaven knows, because I was sorry ; every thing 
had happened as I most wished. I could give up 
my beloved sister to her husband without a single ap- 
prehension as to her future. Nevertheless the tears 
would come. They are most women’s safety-valve, and 
answer quite as well for occasions of extreme joy as for 
those of sorrow. Mine were contagious, and we had a 
good cry together, — we two, who had been the dearest 
upon earth to each other almost all the years of our 
young lives. I could be dearest to Margaret no longer. 
Was there any unworthy jealousy in my tears'? 

“ What will papa say ? ” I asked, when we had got 
quiet again. 

“ Oh, he is pleased. Ignatius spoke to him first ; and 
indeed, Laura, what could he have hoped for me half 
so good ? As he himself said, he can give me to Mr. 
Thorndike without a doubt or a fear. I know it was a 
long time before Ignatius could make up his mind to 
ask my hand, because he is poor now, and he could 


A LETTER, AND WHAT GAME OF IT. 317 


not bear to have me share poverty with him; but 
finally” — 

“ But finally he bethought himself to do you better 
justice, and not sacrifice your heart and his own to 
what is, at worst, but a doubtful fear.” 

I went donwnstairs presently to see and congratulate 
my brother-in-law elect. Margaret staid behind ; she 
had need to be alone, she said. I think she prayed 
then. 

It was not long before Mr. Thorndike left. I was 
going with him into the hall, but I saw a rapid figure 
flitting down the stairs to join him, and I retreated, 
to leave them to exchange together their first lovers’ 
farewell. 


They were to be married in the early fall, before we 
went into town, and we commenced the preparations 
at once. I wanted to have superintended Margaret’s 
trousseau^ and I thought nothing could be too costly or 
too elegant for her. It was a real annoyance when she 
quietly refused to have this and that, because it was not 
fitting for the wife of a man whose fortune was yet to 
make. But she had always had her own way, — she did 
so still. Her quiet, persistent mildness was all-powerful. 

In respect to style of living and expenses I could see 
there would be perfect harmony between her and her 
betrothed. Both were independent, and entirely above 
vanity. I went into the parlor one day, and found 
papa fussing and fretting in a manner quite unusual 
for him. 


318 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


“What is the matter?” I asked, as I went up to 
him. 

“ Matter enough ! One likes to see a very young 
man Quixotic, and heroic, and all that; but Ignatius 
Thorndike is old enough to take a common-sense view 
of life. I have been telling him I was going to buy 
Margaret a house and furnish it, and transfer some 
stock to her name ; and instead of thanking me, behoid, 
he will have Margaret and nothing else. He is not 
willing I should do any thing for her. If he were rich, 
he says, he should not mind ; but, as he is not, he would 
prefer beginning his married life as suits his altered for- 
tunes. It’s absurd, — absolutely ridiculous.” 

“ And what does Margaret say ? ” 

“ Oh, agrees with Ignatius, of course. She under- 
stands him so well that I suppose she thinks it would 
make him unhappy to owe too much, even to her.” 

It was possible, too, I thought, that Margaret preferred 
to be dependent on her husband. I had begun to un- 
derstand her nature now. 

She and Ignatius — the two firm, quiet ones — had 
their way. Papa only gave them their furniture, their 
silver, and linen. Mr. Thorndike rented a small, pleas- 
ant house in town, and it was all fitted up ready for 
them to go into before they were married. 

It was the first of October when they went away 
from us. They had a very quiet wedding. Margaret 
wore white muslin, in lieu of the satin and point lace I 
would fain have selected ; but with all her simplicity 
of attire she could not help looking like a queen. 


A LETTER, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 319 


Nature had stamj^ed her regina. There was an unut 
terable content and peace in Ignatius Thorndike’s face 
when he came fi’om church with his wife, — his young, 
true, fair wife; and Margaret looked as if the ducal 
strawberries would have elevated her less than the un- 
adorned honor of being Mrs. Thorndike. 

They had no bridal tour. It was not only that the 
new-made husband had no superfluity of time or means, 

— in any circumstances neither of them would have 
fancied it. Their happiness was not of a kind to require 
change of air and scene. They needed no company be- 
sides each other. We knew this, — papa and I, — and 
did not intrude upon them much at flrst. After a while, 
however, we fell into the habit of spending with them 
some portion of every day. In fact, we cannot stay 
away, it is such a pleasant home to visit. A neat little 
house, simple in furniture and adornments, but with a 
few sunny pictures, plenty of choice books, and always 
fresh flowers in the crystal vase on Margaret’s table. I 
do not know how the one tidy maid contrives to keep 
every thing so neat, and bright, and smiling. I half 
suspect Margaret of assisting her ; but her hands are 
as white and ladylike as ever, her dress as faultlessly 
neat and elegant. She never talks about her domestic 
afiairs. She is content to love us dearly and welcome us 
heartily, without presenting constant drafts on our sym- 
pathy in household grievances. 

Her husband is all Margaret’s husband ought to be, 

— loving, proud, honest, and .fearless. I think he for- 
gets that he is just beginning the struggle for fortune 


320 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


at an age when he hoped to be able to leave it olf. 
Cheered by her brave, hopeful love, he knows no re- 
grets. He puts mind and brain into his business dur- 
ing many hours of each day ; but he comes home to 
rest and refreshment, and his heart has a sure anchor. 
Already he is successful. When patience and industry 
join hands with tact and skill the reward is sure. I 
should not be surprised if Ignatius Thorndike were one 
day to be numbered again among the rich men of Bos- 
ton. But can he ever be a richer man than now ? 


OUT OF NAZARETH. 



QUEER little town, among hills and streams, 


^ where, under the thrifty, painstaking New 
England farming, the very rocks had blossomed into 
gardens, and every little brook had to turn a big mill- 
wheel. A place that might have been poetical, if it 
had not been so severely useful; with skies blue as 
Italy, and peaks which made you think of Switzerland ; 
and yet a place where no tourists went, and which no- 
body ever thought of talking about. 

The site for the little red school-house on the hill-side 
had been chosen because the land was rocky and there- 
fore cheap, as well as because it was near the centre of 
the district. By the merest accident it was the most 
picturesque nook in the whole town. At its back a 
wood crowned the hill, — a pleasant wood, where there 
was little underbrush, and the school-boys kept all the 
snakes killed, so that timid girls could go there and 
gather flowers in spring and summer, and fill their 
dinner baskets with chestnuts when the early frosts 
opened the burs. The meadow, stretching out green 
and level at the eastward, was a capital place for straw- 
14* u 


322 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


berries and playing ‘‘gool;” and the hill, sloping so 
steeply from the school-house door, — what royal coast- 
ing there was down it in winter. All the juveniles 
appreciated these points of attraction ; and Miss Amberj 
the teacher, appreciated what the rest forgot, the pic- 
turesqueness of a landscape which would have en- 
chanted a painter, — - if you could fancy a painter ever 
going to Nazareth, — and so all were satisfied. 

Miss Amber had taught school in Nazareth, summer 
and winter, for five years ; but then she began when she 
was seventeen, — so she was not very old. She was an 
orphan ; but the townsfolks had loved her father, and 
she did not lack for friends. Parson Amber had been 
for thirty years their minister, and when he died, and 
his fair invalid wife, whom he had married late in life, 
laid her head down on his dead heart, and died in time 
to be buried in the same grave, every home in the 
little country town was open to his only child, and 
every heart was ready to give her welcome. But she 
chose independence, and asked for the post of teacher 
of the district school. 

She retained the small but pleasant cottage which 
her father owned, and the woman who had been at 
once housekeej)er and maid of all work for her parents ; 
and so pleased herself with the semblance of a home 
to go to when her day’s work was over, though the 
cherishing love, which had made those lowly walls so 
dear, was gone from the earth. 

Miss Amber made a good teacher. I do not mean 
by this that she liked it. I do not hold to the creed 


OUT OF NAZARETH, 


323 


that to teach well one must be in love with one’s work* 
One must have ability to impart knowledge, and a re- 
spectable fund of knowledge to impart. Beyond these 
it only wants self-control and a conscience, — two 
things which Miss Amber had. So she did her duty 
in the fear of God, and did it well. It was not in the 
nature of things that she should particularly enjoy it. 
Her father had been a man of literary tastes and 
thorough culture, and after she had mastered the 
tedious first rudiments of knowledge he had been 
her teacher. To one who had walked among the stars, 
dreamed through the classics, was familiar with the 
daily lives and ways of the poets as with the faces of 
her neighbors, — one whose soul was full of subtile per- 
ceptions of beauty, undeveloped powers of imagina- 
tion, longings all the stronger because unspoken after 
the glory, and romance, and fervor, of a full life, 
there could be little attractive in the task of thumping 
A B C’s into naughty curly heads, or kindling torches 
of illumination to guide benighted intellects through the 
Rule of Three. All the more glory to her, I say, there- 
fore, because she did her work well. All heroes do not 
lead regiments. She always passed her “noonings” at 
school, and staid at night to mend pens and prepare 
copy-books, — so for eight hours of every day she was 
not her own. Her moments and her thoughts were 
paid for, and she gave them every one faithfully. Then 
she went home, put on her home dress and her home 
face, and was her own mistress. 

Did I say that Miss Amber had many friends in 


324 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


Nazareth ? I should have been nearer the truth to say 
she had but one. All cared for her. Partly for her 
father’s sake, and partly for her own, the minister’s little 
girl was dear to each and all. But if friendship means 
something more than liking ; if it means companionship 
in pursuits, exchange of ideas, community of thoughts, 
she had one sole friend, — Adam Russell. And even on 
him she secretly looked down a little, though nothing 
in her manner ever gave a suggestion of it. She was 
exquisitely refined. Her mother had been faultlessly 
bred, — her father was a gentleman of the old school. 
To a dweller in Nazareth such refinement, inherited 
and cultivated, was no blessing. It was hard sometimes 
to conceal her annoyance at neighborly familiarities, 
awkward country ways. But her kind heart carried 
her safely through, and she wounded no mortal’s self- 
love. 

Still she wished — she could not help wishing it 
every night when he sat by her side — that Adam 
Russell were less rugged ; less noisy in step and voice ; 
had more softness, more social adroitness. She liked 
him heartily, nevertheless. 

He had been her father’s pupil. For three years 
before Parson Amber died he had taught the two to- 
gether, — girl and boy. After his death they had kept 
on with their studies. It would have been so solitary 
to give up all old habits. After the first wild spasm of 
grief was over, and Grace had begun to grow familiar 
with her loneliness and sorrow, and recognize it as 
something that was not to be confronted or shaken ofiT, 


OUT OF NAZARETH. 


325 


— a quiet guest rather, to sit with her at board and 
fireside until her own death day, — she began to feel 
the need of keeping up old ways. When Adam Russell 
came, timidly enough, not dreaming of books or study, 
but only to bring her a late fiower or two which the 
autumn blasts had spared, and show her in his sad eyes 
and mutely sympathizing face how sorry he was for her, 
she brought out the last book they had been reading, 
and asked him quietly if he would stay and study with 
her a while. When he went away, she said, struggling 
with something that rose up in her throat and seemed 
to choke her : — 

“ Perhaps you had better come every night as you 
used, and we will try how we can get on together with- 
out a teacher. I think papa would have wished it.” 

Then she shut the door hurriedly, almost in his face ; 
for she felt a storm of sobs and tears bursting forth 
which he must not see. How grief shook her. What 
bitter, bitter cries smote the very heavens from those 
orphan lips. With what unavailing anguish she called 
for voices to answer her, to bless her, which must be 
silent evermore, until she, too, should learn the secret 
password which opens the portal of eternity. How, at 
last, came merciful exhaustion, and then, through the 
stillness, a whisper faint and sweet as of a ministering 
angel : — 

“ He is a father of the fatherless, — even God in His 
holy habitation.” 

Little she knew, little she would ever know, how her 
sorrow was shared even then, — how he stood outside, 


326 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


that simple country-bred boy, not daring to seek ad- 
mittance again, or proffer any comfort, and yet longing, 
in a passion of tender grief, and loving pain, to bear 
it, all for her, — to shield that graceful head from every 
storm of life. He did not go away until the moans, 
that had penetrated faintly to his ear, were still, and 
the glow of a just-lighted lamp shone out softly fi'om 
Miss Amber’s window. 

He was only sixteen then, and she was seventeen. 
He did not think about love. Ho dream of possible 
possession, no longing to call her his, blent with the 
humble sincerity of his worship. He only felt that to 
have died to make her happy would have been easier 
than to stand outside and know her shaken with a 
sorrow he was powerless to soothe. 

Since that night five years had passed. Miss Amber 
had taught the village school. Adam Kussell had 
worked the days through upon his father’s farm, serv- 
ing with faithful hands, but with heart and mind often 
far enough away. Evenings they had met almost daily. 
In the summer they took their books out of doors, 
or sat, when it was stormy, in the old window-seat ; in 
winter at the fireside, with Aunt Prudence Fairly, the 
housekeeper, in the other corner nodding over her knit- 
ting. Ho one ever gossiped about Miss Amber; perhaps 
because she was open and frank as daylight in all her 
ways. Then, too, she held herself grandly above gossip, 
and, doing what she knew was right, would never have 
thought or cared what speech it might provoke. More- 
^ over, there was an atmosphere of womanly dignity 


OUT OF NAZARETH, 


327 


about her which would have forbidden foolish jesting 
with her name. If any one speculated, country fashion, 
that it would be a match some day between her and 
young Russell, she never knew it, and the thought of it 
had'never entered her head. 

She was twenty-two now, and he twenty-one in the 
summer gone by. She remembered his age as she 
sat waiting for him in the early autumn evening, and 
thought with a real regret that he would soon be going 
away to try his fortune elsewhere, as he had always 
said he should after he was of age. The books they 
were reading lay beside her in the old-fashioned window- 
seat ; but she would not open them until he came. She 
sat with still face and wide eyes looking out toward the 
sunset. 

She was beautiful just then. Ordinarily she was only 
distinguished-looking. She was tall and well-made. 
Her face was pale usually ; clear and healthy, but color- 
less. There was character enough in her proud features, 
and a look of resolution and self-will about the corners 
of her month and in her dark gray eyes. But there 
were moments, as now, when her soul looked out 
through those eyes as through open windows, and 
they grew luminous with the inner light ; when roses 
glowed on her cheeks and rivalled the bright bloom of 
her lips. These moments of transfiguration were when 
she looked at sunsets, or read poetry, or heard music. 
I think the sea would have wrought the same miracle; 
but her home was inland among the hills, and she had 
never seen it. 


328 


SOME WOMENS S HEARTS, 


Adam Russell came in before the spell had ceased to 
work, while still the sunset’s brightness was reflected in 
her changeful face. He had a love for the beautiful as 
quick and keen as her own; and, though neither of 
them knew it then, he had more power and more 
genius. Indeed, of genius, strictly speaking, she had 
not a bit. She was intensely appreciative, not cre- 
ative. 

Yet his face told no tales. He was not handsome, 
but he looked strong and in earnest: true Saxon, — 
large of limb, tough of muscle, with brown hair and 
blue, resolute eyes; Roundhead rather than Cavalier. 
Miss Amber turned and took up a book as he entered. 

“ Not to-night, Grace,” he said, putting it away ; ‘‘at 
least not now. Give me a little time to talk.” 

His accent touched her ; for there was in it a certain 
pleading inflection, unconscious and tender. 

“ I don’t know when, after to-night, I shall be here 
again,” he went on, half-sadly, half-expectantly, as if he 
longed, yet scarcely hoped, to move her regret. “ Shall 
you miss me at all ? ” 

“ I shall miss you more than you can guess. What a 
lonely five years these last would have been but for our 
evenings together. I am not of a temperament to relish 
solitude without some one to whom I can say how 
sweet it is. But are you really going? When do you 
go, and where ? ” 

“I am really going. I staid here thus long only 
because they needed me at home. Father must make 
his next year’s arrangements without me. You know 


OUT OF NAZABETH, 


329 


I never thought farming would suit me for a permanent 
thing, — or New England either, for that matter.” 

“ And yet she is a good mother.” 

“ Yes ;” and the slow blue eyes kindled a little, and 
then softened. “ I hope you are not thinking I don’t 
love home. If I were rich, I think I would live and 
die here ; but I must have room to grow. I must make 
money faster; for I want what it will bring. Why 
should I weary you with reasons ? I think you’ve 
heard them all before. You knew my purpose, and 
now the time is come. I shall go to-morrow ; where, I 
don’t know yet, but out toward the sunset. I have 
three thousand dollars, which my grandmother gave 
me when she died. When I have made them ten 
times three, I think I shall be ready to come back. 
Simple people could live well enough on thirty thou 
sand, couldn’t they, Grace?” 

He asked this question, and then he bit his lip with 
vexation. He had meant to ask her for her love, and 
here he was talking about money. Still he wanted so 
much to know what sum she would think enough for 
comfort, — when he might venture to come back. He 
had outgrown a little in these five years his boyish 
ignorance and simplicity of heart. He was no longer 
content to worship without the thought of return. He 
loved Grace Amber, and he wanted her, — to be his 
own ; to meet him, with those proud, sweet eyes of 
hers, when he came in ; to belong to him, with her 
red lips, and her dark shining hair, and her proud, 
pure woman’s heart. But he had not outgrown his 


330 


SOME WOMEN-^S HEARTS. 


boyish shyness ; and his very sense of her goodness and 
grace made him awkward. He had longing enough, 
but little hope. I am not sure that women do not like 
a self-confident wooer better. He started from his 
thoughts as if from a trance, when, after a moment’s 
silence, her sweet voice broke upon his ear: — 

“I don’t know much about money, but I should 
think thirty thousand dollars, two thousand a year, 
enough for luxury. W e never had more than half that 
income in my father’s life, and we surely lived in 
comfort.” 

‘‘ And when I have that much may I come back for 
you ? Oh, Grace, Grace, I don’t know how to tell you, 
but you must have seen that you are all I care for in 
this world. Your sorrow pierces me to the heart. 
Your smiles make me glad. I would give every 
moment of my life for your happiness. I know I’m 
not good enough or polished enough for you. I know 
I’m not lialf what you deserve ; but oh, who will ever 
love you so well? Who could love you so well as I, 
who have loved you all my life ? If I grow better, 
worthier, will you promise to love me, to keep your 
heart for me ? ” 

“'Let me think, — wait, — give me time to tell you” 

The silence that fell between them only lasted five 
minutes. It seemed to Adam Russell like a cycle of 
eternity. 

Grace Amber’s brain reeled a moment, and th^n 
grew steady. His declaration had been the greatest 
surprise of her life. During all the hours they had 


OUT OF NAZARETH. 


831 


passed together she had never thought of his loving 
her. Could she give him what he asked ? She stole 
a stealthy look at him as he sat with his eyes turned 
away. It was not the face or form of her ideal. She 
loved softness, gentleness, poetry of motion, grace of 
aspect. She needed most of all something to rely on, 
— strength, courage, truth, — but she did not know her 
own needs as yet. Her quiet life had developed her so 
slowly that she had not learned to understand herself. 
What she fancied now, she would not love five years 
hence. Still she could only answer from present knowl- 
edge. She cared more for Adam Russell than for any 
one else in the world.' She would feel the pain she 
must give him to her own heart’s core, but he did not 
satisfy her taste. She could not feel for him one throb 
of the soft, sweet tumult of passion which she supposed 
love was. She noticed the square, ungraceful shape of 
his stalwart figure in his ill-fitting country-made clothes. 
She looked at his hard, rough hands, browned with the 
summer’s work in plow-field and hay-field. She did 
not see in him one thing to please her fancy. Plenty 
of good sterling qualities to make her honor and trust 
in him, — but not the eloquence of dark eyes and 
silver tongue, — not the magical charm, the persuasive 
witchery which could win her love. 

She spoke at length, tenderly, deprecatingly, pitifully, 
with tears in her voice and her eyes : — 

“ I can’t, Adam, I can’t. I have tried, but it is of no 
use. I do love you, I love you dearly ; but oh ! forgive 
me, it is not in that way.” 


832 


SOME WOMEN-^S HEABTS, 


“Forgive you! Forgive you for not loving me, 
Grace ! Did you think I could blame you ? I hardly 
hoped at all. I knew I was not good enough, — I said 
so. Forgive me for 'troubling you. I have pained 
you, made you cry. Don’t, Grace, you will break my 
heart,” for, moved to the depths by his words, she was 
sobbing passionately. 

“ I don’t wonder you couldn’t love me. I only 
wonder I could have been so mad as to think it 
possible. God bless you. God make you happy. I 
know you are my friend, my true, good friend, and 
that is enough. It must be enough. You will be my 
friend still when I come back, won’t you ; wherever 
you are, married or single?” 

A great gulping sob shook him in spite of himself as 
he said that, — he was not strong enough to bear the 
thought of finding her married to some one else. She 
could not answer him, for her tears were falling fast ; 
but she put out her hand, and he took it and held it in 
a close pressure. After a moment he let it go, and for 
her sake forced himself to self-control and calmness. 

“ I brought you a book,” he said ; “ one you like, and 
I want you should keep it to make you think of me 
sometimes when I can read with you no more.” 

He laid it in her hand, an edition of Shelley, bound as 
Shelley should be, in leather the color of the sea, and 
printed on fair, creamy pages, in type it would be a 
luxury to read. It was an English edition. He had 
been to Boston and back for it the day before. He 
said nothing of another gift he had purchased for her 


OUT OF NAZARETH, 


there, — a ring with a pearl white as milk, faintly 
flashing, — he had given up all hope that she would 
wear that now. 

He received her thanks with a sad smile, and soon 
after he went away. He turned back on the threshold 
to say, looking at her with tender, sorrowful eyes : — 

“ If ever you want a friend, Grace, — if ever there is 
any thing a brother could do for you, — let me know. 
Promise me. My father can always tell you where I 
am, so it will be easy to send me word. No matter 
how far it is, I will not fail you.” 

When he was gone Grace Amber went back into the 
room where she had received her flrst offer. She had 
it to herself. Aunt Prudence was doing fortnightly 
duty at a sewing-society, and there was no one to 
notice her mood. She tried to read a little in her 
Shelley. Then she shut it and fell to thinking. She 
could not turn her mind all at once from the true, 
honest love that had been laid at her feet. She thought 
it all over, — what he had said, — how he had looked 
at her, — how generous and patient and earnest he was. 
If she could have loved him she knew he would never 
have failed her. She could have looked forward to a 
future fixed and safe and sheltered. But of what avail 
all this when she could not give him her heart ? — that 
wilful, fluttering thing waited for the voice of another 
charmer. Some one there must be in the world who 
would look at her with the eyes of which she had 
dreamed, — whose tones, silver sweet to her ears, would 
woo in poet phrases, — a lover after her own heart. 


834 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS, 


But she pitied Adam Russell, her old playfellow, 
her fellow student, her one friend for so many years. 
She went to bed, at last, with a heartache for his sake ; 
and his familiar, kindly face blended strangely in her 
dreams with the dark eyes, and smile half-sad, half- 
tender of the true Prince who was to come some 
day. 

That was autumn ; and the winter which followed 
was insupportably long and tedious. She had never 
thought that she could miss her old friend so much. 
Her school duties seemed harder and more monotonous, 
— the children more hopelessly stupid and the days 
longer. Then the evenings, — those still, dreary times, 
with no one to read to her, or hear her read, and the 
silence broken only by the steady, drowsy click of 
Aunt Prudence’s knitting-needles. There was no one 
to notice the bit of scarlet ribbon with which she 
brightened her winter-dress, or the new ways she did 
her hair. She was not one whit more in love with 
Adam Russell than ever; but his going away and 
leaving no one to take his place made a terrible blank 
in her life. She grew thin. She looked not only pale, 
but listless. She found her solitude and the dull 
monotony of her days insupportable. She resolved to 
change it. She began searching the papers. In some 
of them, she thought, she would be sure to see the 
opening she waited for. Her evenings, devoted to 
advertising columns, became a little more interesting. 

At length she chanced upon an advertisement for a 
governess whch seemed to promise something. All the 


OUT OF NAZARETH, 


335 


wisdom of Solomon was not, for a wonder, required of 
the applicant. She was not expected to sing like 
Patti, play like Gottschalk, and dance like Mademoi- 
selle Cubas. The accomplishments, so called, were to 
be taught by masters engaged for the purpose, — the 
governess was expected to train her pupils in the 
ordinary branches of an English education, to direct 
their reading, and criticise their manners. Miss Amber 
had no fear but^ that she was qualified. The only 
trouble was the references required. To whom could 
she refer, — whose indorsement, of all she knew, would 
establish her credentials ? 

She was frank by nature, and she solved the question 
in the directest way. She wrote a letter to the address 
given in the advertisement, in which, with straight- 
forward simplicity, she set forth the details of her 
birth, breeding, and acquirements, — all her past life, in 
short. Perhaps nine advertisers for governesses out of 
ten would have passed such a letter by unheeded. 
Fortunately she had chanced upon the tenth one, who 
appreciated it, and understood her at once. She re- 
ceived in reply a communication nearly as frank as her 
own. 

Mrs. St. Clair, the lady who desired her services, 
was a widow with two daughters to educate, of whom 
ihe younger was ten and the elder twelve. She resided 
in ‘New York in the winter, in summer upon the Hud- 
son ; and she wished a governess who would be no less 
a companion for herself than an instructress for her 
daughters. If Miss Amber chose to accept the engage- 


886 


shME WOMEN'S HEARTS. 


ment she would be treated in all respects, social and 
domestic, as one of themselves. She concluded by 
naming a salary which sounded munificent to one 
accustomed to the wages of a district school-teacher 
in the country. 

Miss Amber answered the letter by return mail, accept- 
ing the situation, and agreeing, as had been proposed, 
to join the family at Kiverdale the second week in May. 

This done, she dispatched a note to the school- 
committee of Nazareth, informing them that she must 
resign her post at the end of the winter term. 

Her next task was to settle matters with Aunt 
Prudence. The little cottage where they lived, with 
the books and furniture it contained, was her inheri- 
tance from her father. She could not have borne to 
have it pass into other hands, or to see it shut up. She 
proposed to her housekeeper to remain there, and keep 
a home always open for her return, — promising to 
send her from each quarter’s salary a remittance suffi- 
cient to keep her in comfort. The proposal was ac- 
cepted with thanks, after a few vain remonstrances on 
the evils of young girls going to strange places, the 
dangers of city life, and sundry kindred topics. 

So all was settled, and then Miss Amber had a pleas- 
ant employment for her leisure in making her prepara- 
tions. It was marvellous how far her money went, 
aided by the contrivances of her deft fingers, for she 
was her own dress-maker. 

School closed, and she parted from the children, the 
last day, with more real regret than she could have im- 


OUT OF NAZARETH. 


sar 


agined it possible to feel for them. They were a link to 
her past life ; and the future, now that she was drawing 
near it, seemed so dim, so vague, so untried, that she 
shrank from it a little, and turned to the past with a 
strange tenderness. She shed not a few tears for the 
days gone by, as she roamed again over her old haunts, 
and went round among all her old, kind friends to bid 
them farewell. 

Still, when she had fairly left Nazareth behind her, 
and started on her way to Riverdale, her spirits rose. 
The prospect of change exhilarated her. She seemed 
to breathe freer. Her pulses thrilled at the thought of 
new scenes and new faces, — perhaps, who knew, the 
real story-book lover at last. It was time, she said to 
herself, with a smile and a blush, — she was almost 
twenty -three, and if he did not make haste, ‘‘the invis- 
ible, unknown he,” she would be old and faded before 
he came for her. 

That night she passed on the Sound. The next fore- 
noon she reached Riverdale station. The other pas- 
sengers who got out there marched away, as if each 
one knew where he was going. She was left nearly 
alone, when a respectable-looking coachman asked if it 
was Miss Amber, and conducted her to a carriage where 
a middle-aged lady and two little girls sat waiting. It 
was kind of them, she thought, to meet her. She went 
forward with a pleased smile on her face that made her 
lovely. Mrs. St. Clair looked at her critically. She 
liked the graceful figure in quiet, lady-like travelling 
garb ; the pale, high-bred face ; the simple yet elegant 
16 


V 


338 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


manned. She congratulated herself. She had not done 
ill in trusting to her intuitions. She welcomed her 
governess cordially, and introduced Helen and May, 
her daughters. 

In the mean time Miss Amber’s cool eyes had taken 
her measure also. They saw in her a shrewd, reasona- 
ble, kindly woman, — no enthusiast, yet not without im- 
pulse, — a true lady, — a mother who would be judicious 
and faithful, but one whose affection would never be 
idolatrous or unreasonable, — a person whose whole 
character was well-regulated and consistent ; whom she 
should like sincerely, and get on with serenely, but 
about whom she could never be enthusiastic. 

They were satisfied mutually. 

That was a pleasant summer. Mrs. St. Clair had 
notions of her own about governesses, and recognized 
a lady when she saw one. Miss Amber fell into the 
ways of the household without difficulty. She had 
quite as much time to herself as was good for her. 
She found Mrs. St. Clair a pleasant friend; and the 
children, if no better than other children, were no 
worse, and had been trained to be obedient and not 
exacting. 

Gradually she became familiar with the family his- 
tory. Mrs. St. Clair, not more than thirty-five now, 
had been her husband’s second wife. Besides her own 
two little girls there was a son of the first Mrs. St. 
Clair ; a young gentleman of twenty-five, who had been 
living for several years in Italy, and was expected home 
by and by. About this absentee, “brother Paul,” as 


OUT OF NAZARETH. 


839 


they called him, the children were very enthusiastic. He 
was so handsome, so generous, — above all, he painted 
so beautifully. He must paint Miss Amber’s portrait 
when he came home. 

Mrs. St. Clair spoke of him with a certain kind of 
affection. That he was her husband’s son was a claim 
on her regard which she would never have thought of 
ignoring. Still there was no difficulty in perceiving 
that he was not to her taste. A very real woman, she 
had not much sympathy with the ideal. She was just 
the kind of person to look coldly on artists, and dis- 
trust poets. So her curt and slightly sarcastic com- 
ments on the children’s rhapsodies only amused their 
governess. 

Tin consciously to herself Miss Amber was beginning 
to make a hero of this unknown “ brother Paul.” It 
would have shocked her if she had realized how much 
she thought about him, — how much reference she had 
in her choice of books and studies to the probability of 
their future meeting, and the subjects she should want 
to discuss with him. She would have laughed at the 
idea of the rich Mr. St. Clair falling in love with his 
sisters’ governess ; and yet, underneath her acknowl- 
edgments that such dreams would be impossible of ful- 
fillment, and absurd of conception, I am not sure that 
there did not lurk a hidden something, not vivid enough 
to be called a hope, less tangible than a fancy, which 
pointed to him as the true Prince. 

After a quiet, pleasant summer the family went back 
to Hew York. Miss Amber was more than ever 


340 


SOME WOMEN^S IlEABTS. 


charmed with her situation, as indeed she had reason 
Mrs. St. Clair had taken a hearty and honest liking tc 
her, and meant to afford her every enjoyment and ad- 
vantage in her power. If she had been a daughter of 
the house her position could hardly have been more 
agreeable or independent. She had, to be sure, her 
hours for lessons, when she taught with zeal and thor- 
oughness, — but she might have done as much had 
May and Helen been her own young sisters. Outside 
these hours they were quite as much in their mother’s 
charge as in hers. She enjoyed this luxurious life. She 
delighted in the ease and elegance of her surroundings, 
— handsome furniture, spacious rooms, attentive ser- 
vants. When she thought of Nazareth, in those days, 
it was almost with a shiver of self-pity. How had she 
lived so long with such commonplace associations? 
What would tempt her ever to go back to that rugged 
life, so bare of all luxury and grace ? 

In New York Mrs. St. Clair introduced her in soci- 
ety as her friend. Probably few guessed at her posi- 
tion ; or, if they did, they politely ignored it, perceiving 
that they were expected to receive her on the footing 
of one of the family. At first she remonstrated against 
giving up so much time to society ; but when she saw 
it was really Mrs. St. Clair’s wish, she yielded to the 
natural, girlish enjoyment it gave her, only taking most 
conscientious care that her pupils should never be neg- 
lected, or their hours for study set aside. 

She met with admiration enough to have turned some 
heads. Not that she was called a beauty. The womem 


OUT OF NAZARETH, 


341 


indeed, could see nothing to admire in “ that pale 
girl ; ” but the men seemed to find something. Per- 
haps it was partly the oddity of a woman who did not 
sing or play or dance, in a circle where every one else 
at least attempted these accomplishments. Then her 
style was so peculiar. She dressed so simply, yet with 
a taste so faultless. Her conversation was so piquant, so 
fresh ; her moods so independent ; her bearing so quietly 
regal. It was the difierence between a nature pure, 
inexperienced, unhackneyed, and one which an artificial 
life had warped out of all originality; cramped re- 
morselessly down to conventional standards. Mrs. St. 
Clair smiled to herself now and then to see how her 
protegee was becoming the fashion. 

Her smiles changed to half-vexed astonishment when 
two offers of marriage came from two of the best 
matches in the city, and were successively rejected. 

“ I do not think you know your own mind, or have 
any true idea of your own requirements,” she said in a 
provoked tone, on the second of these occasions. 

“ Why ? Because I do not love Mr. Desmond or Mr. 
Yanderpool? I know no harm of them ; but I cannot 
help it if they do not touch my heart. It bores me and 
tires me out to talk with either of them an hour at a 
time : what would it be to see their faces opposite me 
for ever ? Are you in haste to look out for a new gov- 
erness ? ” 

“ I should be sorry to part with you, — I need not 
tell you that, — but I am not selfish enough to wish 
you to forget your own interests, and lose your chances 


342 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


in life for the sake of being my governess. However, 
you must gang your ain gait.” 

“ Waiting for Paul, I know it ! ” Mrs. St. Clair solilo- 
quized in an annoyed tone, as the door closed upon Miss 
Amber. “ She is romantic, and those children have 
made him out such a wonder. A selfish, luxurious 
dreamer; he isn’t half good enough for her.” 

It was just about .that time that one of Aunt Pru- 
dence’s occasional letters came, with an item of Naza- 
reth news in it of more than usual interest. Adam 
Russell’s mother had died suddenly. He had been 
sent for, but only arrived in time to stand over her 
grave. He had seemed very much overcome, but had 
only staid in Nazareth a few days. The night before he 
went away he had called at the old parsonage. It must 
have been to ask after Grace, for he had not talked of 
any thing else, and spoke little even of her. He took 
down some of the books, and went and sat in the old 
window-seat, and turned them over ; and after he had 
sat there a while he got up and went away. 

This letter touched Miss Amber’s heart strangely. 
She had been Adam Russell’s true friend too many 
years not to feel his sorrow. She knew by her own 
memories of anguish what it must be to him to lose his 
mother. It would seem to sever his connection with 
Nazareth; for between him and his father — a stern, 
rigid man — there was no great attachment. Perhaps 
she should never see him again. How strange it would 
be, after all those years of friendship. How good he 
had been to her ; how much he had loved her. She 


OUT OF NAZARETH, 


343 


wanted to write to him and try to comfort him a little; 
she thought she would if she had known where he was. 
But she did not know. There was no way but to send 
the letter to his father for him ; and then it would be 
speculated about, and grow old and cold before it 
reached him. So she gave it up. Perhaps something 
whispered that since she could not give him what he 
had asked her for, any thing else which she could give 
him would be worth little. The thought of his lonely 
heart, his unshared sorrow, haunted and saddened her 
for days, — until, in fact, it was banished by a new and 
most potent excitement. 

“ Brother Paul ” was coming. He had started in the 
‘‘ Arago.” She was nearly due. He might be there any 
day. May and Helen were wild with the eager ex- 
citement of children. Miss Amber’s expectation was 
quieter, but not less intense. The daily lessons were 
hard work for both teacher and pupils. 

At last, one day, in the very midst of study hours, 
there was the bustle of an arrival in the hall. The 
girls sprang up and tossed their books to the ceiling. 
The governess attempted no restraint. She, too, would 
have liked to join the wild rush down the stairs. She 
retreated, instead, to her own room, and, like a sensible 
young woman, improved the time to make her toilet. 
It cost her more study than all the parties at which she 
had assisted that winter. She did not acknowledge to 
herself the half of her real interest. She wanted to have 
him for a friend, she thought, — to hear him talk about 
Italy ; she must not shock his fastidious taste by her 


344 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


first appearance. She tried half a dozen things, and 
ended with a plain but rich black silk, which fitted her 
figure exquisitely, finished with soft laces at wrists and 
throat. Black became her. It seemed a sort of com 
tinuation, in efiect, of her soft, dark hair. It made her 
pale face look clear. Still, when all was done she was 
not satisfied. She did not like the slight, pale girl she 
saw in the mirror. Something seemed wanting of grace 
and sparkle, — some charm she lacked in her own eyes 
that she knew not where to borrow. I do not know 
but she would have dressed over again if Helen, at the 
door, had not saved her the trouble. 

“ Mamma wants you to come down. Paul has been 
asking for you. He laughed at May and me for writing 
so much about you, and he says he wants to see the 
paragon.” 

Indiscreet tongue of childhood ! Miss Amber’s cheeks 
blazed, — her eyes glittered. They had been making 
her ridiculous. Well, she would be indifierent enough. 
Her excitement supplied the lacking charm. If she had 
looked in the glass now she would have seen no want 
of life and sparkle. . 

She went into the drawing-room haughtily. Haughtily 
she received Mr. St. Clair’s salutations. Silently and 
coolly she took her place at the window. He was en- 
chanted. Surely the half had not been told him. None 
of them had written of her as handsome. What else 
did they call this radiant creature, with the wide, lumi- 
nous eyes, the dusky, soft-falling hair, the pale brow, and 
the rose tint on cheek and lip ? 


OUT OF NAZARETH. 


345 


You perceive there was a certain exaggerative ro- 
mance in his manner of thinking. He was both poet 
and painter, — not great in either art, but with enough 
of ah artist’s soul to color his conceptions. 

Miss Amber, on her part, despite her vexation and her 
cool ways, lost not an inflection of his voice, not a shade 
of his expression. It thrilled her with a new, emotion 
when he looked at her or spoke to her. Here were the 
dark, eloquent eyes of which she had dreamed, — here 
the silver tongue, the high-bred, faultlessly elegant 
manner. Of course he was nothing to her ; but with 
such a man in the world for a standard of comparison, 
what chance was there for the Desmonds and Yander- 
pools of society ? She was cool and self-possessed as a 
veteran, however. No one could have guessed from 
her manner the new, overpowering fascination which 
swayed her heart. Even Mrs. St. Clair gloried in her 
quiet dignity, and began to hope that she was not going 
to be foolish enough, after all, to fall in love with Paul. 

Is there any need to tell how the days and weeks of 
their acquaintance went on ? how the spell of those un- 
accustomed charms stole over Miss Amber’s dreaming 
heart, innocent, childlike, and almost as susceptible at 
twenty-three as in early girlhood ? She lost her power 
to criticise, and believed in Paul St. Clair’s genius as he 
believed in it himself. She listened to him with pulses 
that kept time to the melody of his voice as he lay on 
an ottoman at her feet, and said his own rhymes to 
her, looking up now and then into her face with the 
dangerous sweetness of his dark eyes. She grew to 
15 * 


346 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


find every hour spiceless, insipid, that was not passed 
in his presence. And yet she kept up to herself the 
pretty fiction that he did not, and never would, love 
her, that it was only his genius which charmed her ; and 
so she blinded her eyes as to whither she was drifting. 

As for him, he had had fancies many, and loves 
many; but he felt in her presence that he had never 
loved before. I know not how real his passion was. 
His own faith in it was profound. 

Mrs. St. Clair looked on with a certain degree of such 
patience as one has with the vagaries and petulance of 
a sick child. She thought that the flame would consume 
all its oil and go out after a while, at least in Miss 
Amber’s heart. For her step-son she was not much 
concerned; she believed thoroughly in his power of 
recuperation. 

Before they left town in the spring she found, to her 
dismay, that affairs were assuming a more serious char- 
acter than she had anticipated. 

Miss Amber waited on her one morning with a cool 
announcement of her wish to resign her situation. A 
question or two elicited the cause. Mr. St. Clair had 
proposed to her, and she had promised to be his wife. 
Of course she could not with propriety continue to 
teach there; and probably Mrs. St. Clair would not 
wish it, — this speech, with a curious look and an air at 
once deprecating and defiant. 

Mrs. St. Clair considered a moment. Matters had 
certainly gone farther and faster than she expected. 
She had judged Paul by his past flames, and so failed 


OUT OF NAZARETH. 


847 


to do him justice. She had not given him credit for so 
much direct resolution and energy. Her chief concern 
was for Miss Amber, for whom she entertained a true, 
practical, common-sense, yet most earnest friendship, 
more real and tangible, as well as more judicious, than 
one woman in ten is capable of feeling for another. She 
appreciated the girl’s intense, affluent nature ; she 
thought it too rich a freight to be wrecked on the 
lee-shore of an unhappy marriage. Still, if it were 
possible that the marriage would not be unhappy ; if 
she herself had not done Paul justice ; if they indeed 
belonged together; then, in Heaven’s name, let them 
marry. It would be giving her a daughter-in-law after 
her own heart. But, at any rate, they should have time 
to know whether they really and thoroughly suited 
each other. She spoke, after her silent consideration, 
deliberately : — 

“ I am not willing to release you. I want you should 
stay with me through the summer, as much for your 
own sake as for mine. Do not suspect me of being 
opposed to this marriage. If you could be happy in it, 
it would give me undisguised satisfaction. Paul has no 
occasion to marry for money ; it needs only that his wife 
should be a gentlewoman. All my concern is that you 
should not make a mistake. A man can bear an unhappy 
or an unsatisfying marriage without ruin — the world 
offers him so many resources. To a woman, such a 
woman as you, it would be fatal. Stay here, therefore. 
Learn to know him well ; and when you are satisfied 
by a fair trial that he fulfils all the demands of your 


348 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS- 


nature, many him. I believe if I were your mother I 
should hardly feel for you more anxiously, and I could 
not counsel you differently than I do now.” 

Miss Amber’s eyes overflowed. For the first time she 
took Mrs. St. Clair’s hand, and pressed her lips upon it 
with heart-felt tenderness. Then she lifted her face 
W'ith a smile and a blush. 

“ What will he think ? I told him I must positively 
leave, — that it would not be right for me to stay.” 

‘‘I will settle it with him. You shall not be compro- 
mised ; and I assure you he will be only too glad.” 

In her secret heart Miss Amber was glad also. She 
had dreaded to go back to Nazareth, even for a time, — • 
to her dull, ungenial life there ; the rude ways, the 
work-a-day habits. She had dreaded yet more to leave 
Paul St. Clair. In that stage of her love-malady his 
presence was the one charm of the universe. Take that 
away, and sun, moon, and stars would refuse to give 
their light. 

So they all went up to Riverdale, and she basked in 
that marvellous brightness, morning, noon, and night. 
He had the freedom of the schoolroom now, and he 
haunted it incessantly during lesson hours. Indeed, 
when the warm weather came he persuaded his mother 
that both his sisters and their teacher were in need of 
a vacation; and for the months of July and August 
lessons were interdicted altogether. 

Then, of course, he must paint her portrait, — the 
natural pastime of an artist in love. There were long 
sittings, in which he painted little and made love much. 


OUT OF NAZARETH, 


349 


He sketched her in every attitude, every costume, — 
never able to decide in which she was most charming. 

At last she grew tired. She thought it was the warm 
weather, or the long, fruitless sittings. Mrs. St. Clair 
smiled shrewdly, and said something to herself about a 
surfeit of sweetmeats. If Paul would but have let her 
have her own way his power over her would have 
lasted longer. She longed to go off by herself and rest ; 
to think her own thoughts, and have a few free breaths 
out of his atmosphere. But he could not understand it. 
He drew strength and refreshment and constant pleas- 
ure from her larger, deeper, stronger nature. How was 
he to know that this, and not the weather, was exhaust- 
ing her, wearing her out ? 

She bore it as long as she could. The very effort to 
keep up the spell weakened it. Trying to delude her- 
self into thinking that she was as happy as ever, as 
much entranced in his presence, only made her real 
discontent and weariness more tangible. Then, too, her 
nature was, as I have said, singularly honest, — honest 
to herself as well as to others. She had never been 
accustomed to self-deception, or to tampering with the 
truth. When she found that she was tired of Paul, of 
his dark eyes and soft tones, his poetry, 'his painting, his 
Italy, she was too truthful to wear a mask. She won- 
dered at herself. He was certainly her ideal. She 
ought to have been satisfied for ever in his presence, 
only — she wasn’t. She had , taken more real comfort 
with Adam Russell in the old window-seat at Nazareth, 
fagging at Virgil and Cicero, than she seemed ever likely 


850 


SOME WOMEN^S EEARTb. 


to find sitting in the perfumed air of Paul St. Clair’s 
studio, and listening to his honeyed words and soft 
rhymes. The wine had been too sweet. Was she to 
blame because it palled on her taste? 

Still she did blame herself intensely. It well-nigh 
broke her heart. She almost resolved to bear on in 
silence, for ever. How could she tell him w'hen he loved 
her so ; when he had said so often it would be death to 
part with her ? Perhaps she would even have gone to 
such length of self-martyrdom as to smother for his 
sake the remonstrance of her own soul, and go on with 
the fiction of love when the reality was dead, if it had 
not been for Mrs. St. Clair. 

That lady found her crying one morning, and made 
use of the opportunity to wrench the truth from her. 
Indeed, after the first pang which it gave her pride to 
confess that she had been mistaken, it came easily 
enough. It was such a relief to tell the whole truth; 
to lean a little on the strength and judgment of an- 
other. When she had said all that was in her heart she 
smiled with a little touch of self-scorn. 

“ How weak you will think me, — how weak I am ! 
I don’t know that I understand myself. Perhaps I love 
Paul as much as ever. Perhaps it is only this oppres- 
sive weather that makes me feel tired of every thing, 
and when a cool, fresh day comes I shall be myself 
again.” 

Mrs. St. Clair looked at her kindly, but with a shrewd 
comprehension, as she answered her ; — 

‘‘ I think you do love Paul just as much as ever, be- 


OUT OF NAZARETH, 


351 


cause I do not think it was ever love which you felt for 
him. You had an ideal, and you thought he fulfilled it. 
His dark eyes and soft words, his poetry and painting 
and dreaming, bewitched you, — but the back-bone of 
love was not there. It was impossible that it should be, 
for you were the stronger spirit of the two ; and I think 
no real woman loves where she cannot lean. With you 
he would have become like a parasite. He would have 
drawn all the life out of you. You talked of how tired 
you would be of Desmond and of V anderpool. I tell you 
either of them would be rest itself compared with Paul. 
The mind cannot dwell for ever in an artificial atmos- 
phere. One must touch bottom sometimes. I am only 
thankful that you have found out the truth in season.” 

“ But I cannot break my word. I know Paul loves 
me. I am not bad enough to requite love with cruel 
wrong.” 

“ Humph ! To my thinking the cruel wrong would be 
in marrying him when you don’t want him. He would 
find out soon enough how you felt. The very selfish- 
ness of his nature would make him keenly sensitive to 
any coldness; and you know you are no hypocrite. 
Trust me, even if you loved him, he would be better 
off without you. He would lean on you till the little 
strength nature gave him would have died of inaction. 
He will be twice the man married to a woman weaker 
than himself, — one who looks up to him, — whom he 
must sustain. If you dread .telling him, let me.” 

“ No ; if it is right to tell him I must do it. I will 
not delegate my duties. I will go now ; but I seem to 


352 


BOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


myself like Judas when he betrayed his Lord. To 
have received his love, four months ago, with joy and 
pride beyond words, and now to scorn it and reject it ! 
Let me go this instant, or I shall never have enough 
courage.” 

How she got through the interview she never knew. 
When she went into his studio he was retouching the 
outlines of her portrait, looking at it with lingering, 
loving eyes. He sprang, when he heard her step, to 
meet her, radiant with welcome. She almost thought 
again that she loved him, as she met the ardent gaze 
of the dark eyes, and listened to the familiar music 
of his voice. She felt guilty and hopeless, as the 
strong Roman when he met the glazing reproachful 
eye of the master he had murdered. But she plunged 
desperately on, and told him the truth. 

His burst of passionate grief, his upbraiding, his 
despair, pierced her heart. She sat very still ; but she 
grew terribly pale, and her breath seemed to forsake 
her. When he paused she said, — it was all she could 
do to speak, and her tones were so low he thought them 
icy cold, — 

“ If you wish it, if you say so, I will marry you ; but 
I do not love you in that way at all.” 

‘^You are mad, Grace, my darling, — my darling 
You could not so have deceived yourself and me 
You have told me you loved me so often.” 

Low and clear fell the slow, controlled tones : — 

I am not mad. I know my own heart now. I 
know it was not love. I am not deceived, though I was 
then.” 


OUT OF NAZARETH, 


353 


He thought her pitiless, her tones fell so evenly, her 
eyes were so cold and dry. He little knew how near 
her. heart seemed to breaking. It roused his anger. 
He asked, bitterly, — 

“ What is my crime ? What have I done ? ” 

“ Nothing ; only I have found out that I do not love 
you.” 

If she had felt less she would have shown more 
emotion, been more tender ; but she could not trust 
her voice for an unnecessary word. At her icy stillness 
his passion burst all bounds. He forgot himself, and 
overwhelmed her with reproaches ; pierced her with 
arrows of scorn that quivered in her very heart. She 
rose at last, and looked at him with sad, imploring 
eyes. 

“ After so many happy hours, I hoped we could have 
parted friends.” 

“ A man forgives his murderer sometimes,” he sneered, 
“who shoots him in fair duel. I never heard of one 
who shook hands, at parting, with a masked assassin.” 

With these words for the end of so much loving she 
went out of the room. She went upstairs, still firmly 
and tearlessly, and packed her trunks. She could not 
trust herself to rest or pause. When she had arranged 
all her possessions, and dressed herself for a journey, 
she went to Mrs. St. Clair. 

“ The next train leaves in half an hour. My trunks 
are all ready. Can I be sent to the station ? ” 

Mrs. St. Clair saw a resolution in her face which it 
would be useless to oppose. Indeed she did not wish 
w 


354 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


to oppose it ; for she knew her well enough to recog- 
nize her need of change and solitude. She only asked, 
after she had ordered the carriage, — 

“ Will you come back to me when we go to town 
again in the fall?” 

A shudder shook Miss Amber’s frame ; she answered, 
with almost a groan, — 

“No, Mrs. St. Clair, never. I love you, and I love 
the children ; but I am done with governessing for 
life. I am going home. If there is less to interest 
there, less to please, God knows how much less pain 
there is. Mere safety is something.” 

“I understand your feeling so, now. If you ever 
change your mind your place here will never be so 
filled that it will not be open to you to return.” 

When the cars whirled Miss Amber away she gave 
no look backward. She had but one longing, — to get 
home. She had been out into the world, and gathered 
herself apples of Sodom. The fair hues which looked 
so bright in the distance had all faded. In the 
pleasure-gardens stones had goaded, thorns had pricked 
her. She asked now only rest. Nazareth was rough, 
and rugged, and commonplace as ever, doubtless ; but 
no paradise of promised delights could have seduced 
her from it. During all the journey she allowed her- 
self no backward thoughts. She would suffer her self- 
control to run no risks till she should be beyond the 
reach of curious eyes, within the chamber where she 
had dreamed all her childish dreams, before her world’b 
work and world’s trouble came. 


OUT OF NAZABETH. 


355 


The next day she reached Nazareth. Drawing her 
thick veil down to escape notice, she walked home 
across the fields, leaving her trunks to be sent for. 
Just past her twenty-fourth birthday, and done with 
life, — so she thought. 

Aunt Prudence Fairly was a kindly soul, and, thanks 
to the silent influence of her residence in Parson 
Amber’s family, not curious. She welcomed Grace 
with genuine delight, and in the next breath told her 
how pale she looked, — “ dead beat out.” 

“ I know it. I am sick.” 

“ Well, you just go to bed, and I’ll make you a nice 
bowl of penny-r’yal, and put some draughts to your 
feet, and have you round as chipper as can be in a 
couple of days.” 

Miss Amber smiled faintly at the thought of such 
medicine for her pain. But she felt too desolate not 
to value the kindness of the intention. She laid her 
fingers on Aunt Prudence’s withered hand with a 
gentle touch. 

“ That would not help me,” she said, kindly. “ I am 
not ill of any thing but weariness. If you will let me 
go to my room and not come out of it for the next 
three days I shall be all right. I want a thorough rest 
before I can bear to see or speak to any one, even you.” 

The good old soul had the grace to submit, though it 
was about the hardest task Miss Amber could have 
imposed. She longed to ask and answer questions, — 
at least to look at the returned wanderer, and tend her, 
— but she took her disappointment patiently. 


356 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


For three days Miss Amber staid quite alone, only tak- 
ing in periodical cups of tea, and slices of toast, which 
she ate and drank mechanically, because they were 
brought, but which did her much good nevertheless. 

In those three days she grew better acquainted with 
her own heart. She thought a great deal about Paul 
St. Clair; and she began to understand how imaginary 
had been her love for him, even while it was most 
entrancing, — how little it would have been capable of 
withstanding the rude buffetings of actual life in this 
most real world. She pitied him with all the compassion 
of her heart in his present pain ; but she had faith, after 
all, that it would be a wholesome tonic, — that the bitter 
draught would give him strength. Involuntarily she 
recalled the past of two years ago, and contrasted it 
with the present. How boyish, undisciplined, unworthy, 
seemed Paul’s anger, his rage at the truth, his refusal 
to part friends, when compared with Adam Russell’s 
unselfish patience. She could not help seeing where 
was the finer fibre of manhood. 

She thought of the hard, rough hands, and ungrace- 
ful air which had seemed so intolerable to her then. 
Of how much less moment they seemed now. She 
was learning to look beyond externals, to that which 
can alone endure the heat of the furnace. She began 
to see Adam Russell as he was, — strong and faithful 
and self-denying, — the true gentleman. She half 
wondered that, in those old days, she had not loved 
him, for the very thought of him now was like the fresh 
sool wind blowing over the hills. 


OUT OF NAZARETH. 


B57 


She looked out of the window at the rugged, beauti- 
ful landscape. She longed to climb the steep paths ; to 
feel the free, life-giving air. She felt as if she had 
been surfeited with flowers and sweetness and luxury. 
She liked better this simple life, which lay before her 
now, in the town where her father and mother had 
died. She thought of the past with no regret, save for 
the pain she had given Paul. Her own share of suffer- 
ing did not pay too dearly for the knowledge she had 
won. She dressed herself carefully, — it was the even- 
ing of the third day, — and went downstairs. 

“ I am well, now,” she said, with a smile which made 
Aunt Prudence think of sunshine after a long storm. 

“You won’t go back for a week or two, I reckon?” 
asked the old lady, looking at her with fond eyes. 

“ No, Pm not going back. When the school is vacant 
again I shall take it.” 

“ Will you be contented ? ” — with a shrewd, ques- 
tioning glance. 

“ Yes, never fear. There will be no relapse into that 
restless mood which drove me away. I have seen the 
world, and it is no better than Nazareth.” 

“Well, then, I guess you can have the school by 
asking for it. Sally Perkins has been teaching, and 
she’s goin’ to be married this fall. School was out the 
day you came home.” 

Miss Amber had sat down in the window-seat, and 
was looking at the sunset fires burning beyond the 
hills. She wanted to inquire for the old friend who 
used to sit there with her, and she felt a singular 


358 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


diffidence. She did not look at Aunt Prudence when 
she spoke. 

“This window-seat makes me think of Adam. It 
seems a long time since we used to study here together. 
Do you know where he is now ? ” 

“Not rightly. Somewhere out West. He hasn’t 
been home since his mother died, but they say he’s 
making a power of money. He has something to do 
with railroads, and he’s a great politician. He sent 
home some of his speeches, and I got ’em to read after 
they’d done with ’em over to his father’s. I don’t 
believe but what they’re here now.” 

She bustled round to find them, and Miss Amber 
went on with her own thoughts. She did not read the 
speeches till the next morning, when Aunt Prudence 
was busy, and she could have them all to herself 
She did not care much for politics ; but if their subject 
had been the Government of Timbuctoo they would 
have interested her, for they made her better acquainted 
with her old friend. She felt, as she read, that she was 
in presence of an intellect more subtile and clear and 
powerful than her own. She recognized now and then 
touches of genius ; and she saw how a fancy was held 
in leash by the subject, that might be full of exquisite 
grace. She began to wonder how he could ever have 
loved her ; and to think it was because in those old 
days he had not learned to appreciate himself. I think 
she was not far from being in love with him, only she 
was judicious enough not to see it, and only to think 
of him as her best friend. Her past experience was 
her security against being morbid or sentimental. 


OUT OF NAZARETH. 


359 


The first of November she began again her old 
work. It tasked her energies. It was a very different 
thing from teaching May and Helen, her quick, grace- 
ful pupils. These untrained imps were stolid some of 
them, roguish some of them, stupid some of them, 
uncultured and undisciplined all. Still she was not 
discouraged, and seldom vexed. She seemed to have 
acquired some of Adam Russell’s patience. She was as 
forbearing with error and stupidity as he would have 
been ; and so, in brief space, she won love, and con- 
quered all disposition to offend. 

Her life went on monotonously enough until the next 
summer, when it was varied a little by a visitor. Mrs. 
St. Clair came to see her, and staid a week. She 
brought her a letter from Pgiul. Having outlived his 
despair, his natural good-nature made him penitent for 
having parted with Miss Amber in anger. He wrote to 
tell her so. Moreover, he had something else to com- 
municate which he knew she would be glad to hear. 
He was engaged, with every prospect of a happy 
future. His betrothed was charming as any of his 
dreams, and she loved him without doubt or question. 
He believed that they suited each other utterly ; and, 
dear as Miss Amber had been, sad for him as their part- 
ing had been, he was constrained to confess that she had, 
questionless, decided rightly for him as well as for herself. 

When she had read it through she raised her eyes to 
meet Mrs. St. Clair’s smile. 

“ I told you I had no fears for him. I never thought 
you were the one it would be best for him to marry^ 


360 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


any more than I was deluded into believing he could 
make you permanently happy. His Lily is just to his 
taste. She will look up to him, and lean on him, and 
think him the first of created beings. They will be 
married this fall, and then I want you to come back 
to me.” 

This was the true object of the visit. Probably Mrs. 
St. Clair had not a doubt of success. But Miss Amber 
was firm. Ho persuasions moved her. She found her- 
self best, and happiest in Nazareth, and there she would 
stay. Her friend left her behind reluctantly, but was 
her friend too truly to indulge in any pique. 

How little would Grace Amber have believed, two 
years before, that she could have refused such an oflPer 
without regret, — chosen Nazareth before the world. 
Now it must be some other lure than luxury and ease 
and a city life which would wile her from those rugged 
hills. 

Living there, teaching still, the years went by her and 
changed her little. Spring violets bloomed, summer 
roses blushed and faded, autumn fruits ripened, and 
winter snows whitened the fields, bringing her little 
variety. Still she was content. She smiled as she 
looked at herself in the mirror on her twenty-ninth 
birthday, tying on her bonnet, to think that when the 
next year came round they would call her an old maid. 
There were no silver threads in her soft dusky hair, for 
the years had been kind to her. You would scarcely 
have known she was older than at twenty-two, save by 
the deeper meaning of her face. 


OUT OF NAZARETH. 


361 


It was Sunday. She had staid at home in the morn- 
ing to nurse Aunt Prudence through an unwonted 
attack of sick headache ; but in the afternoon she went 
to church as usual. It was September. The fields were 
green still, and the skies bright. But there was the 
breath of autumn in the air, and it braced her nerves 
and quickened her footsteps. She walked on cheerily, 
and there was a bright glow on her cheek as she took 
her seat in church. It deepened a little when some un- 
conscious magnetism drew her eyes to the Russell pew, 
and she saw sitting there an old friend. 

Time had changed Adam Russell. He looked fully 
his years ; indeed, at twenty-eight he might well have 
been taken for thirty-five. His face was calm and kindly, 
but with a look of thought and power, — a masterful 
look, as of one who had struggled with the world and 
conquered it. He had lost nothing of his old friendly 
honesty, but he had gained that indescribable something 
which the world recognizes as the distinction of a gen- 
tleman. 

It was no wonder that Miss Amber heard little of the 
sermon. Try as she would, her thoughts proved rebels. 
She stole no more glances after the first look ; but more 
than once she felt that his eyes were on her face. She 
hurried out when the service was over, but fast as she 
walked it was not long before his free, firm steps over- 
took her. There was no awkwardness or embarrass- 
ment in his manner. He took her books from her hand 
as quietly as if a week, and not seven years, had lain 
between their last meeting and this. He even called 
16 


362 


SOME WOMEN^S HEARTS. 


her Grace, with the pleasant freedom of their old, long, 
continued friendship. At first he did most of the talk-^ 
ing ; but soon they were chatting together as of old. 
When they reached the gate she asked if he could come 
in to tea, or would they wait for him at home ? 

“ Come in ! ” he answered. “ Surely I can, if you are 
good enough to ask me. The only one who would have 
missed me at home is waiting for me in another home, 
now.” 

Then they talked about his mother, and his sorrow 
and her sympathy drew them still more into the old 
manner of intimate friendliness. 

After tea was over Aunt Prudence, worthy for once ; 
of her name, found her head getting to be more trouble- 
some, and judiciously made her exit. So it chanced 
that they sat down together at the west window, where 
lay the Shelley, in its sea-green covers, just as the sun 
was setting. 

“ It makes the years seem short,” he said, “ to sit here 
again ; and yet they were long enough in passing. But 
I did my task. I have brought home the thirty thou- 
sand dollars, Grace. I know I did not suit you then, — 
you thought you could not love me. I meant to grow 
fitter for you with the years, — more worthy ; for I had 
always one fixed purpose, — to come home, and, if I 
found you free, ask you the question I asked you that 
night over again. Would there be any more hope for 
me now ?” 

It is I who am not good enough for you now,” she 
answered, faintly. 


OUT OF NABARETH, 


363 


Then she told him the story of her year and a. half 
away from Nazareth, — the story of Paul. 

‘‘ Did you think that could trouble me ? ” he asked 
when she paused. “If you are left to me, do I care for 
the dreams which never proved themselves real ? Can 
I be too thankful for any thing which taught you self- 
knowledge ? I have never lost hope, or ceased striving, 
that I might grow fit to be your choice at last. See, 
this is what I had for you that night ; it has never left 
me. Will you wear it now ? ” 

He drew the ring from his breast, — its pure pearl 
faintly fiashing, — and Miss Amber held out her hand. 
And so, with the ring upon her finger, and her hand in 
his, the twilight found them, and folded its soft shadows 
round them like a blessing. 

She had won her life’s rest at last. 

“Do you love Nazareth too well to leave it?” 

This question came the next day, when they had 
grown familiar with their joy. 

“We will live where you choose,” he went on, seeing 
that she hesitated in her reply. “ It will be no sacrifice 
for me to live here, if you like it best. I have left my 
work behind me : it is for you to say whether I go back 
to it or begin a new life here.” 

She thought a little, silently. Nazareth was dear, — 
dearer than ever now. All the pure joy of her life had 
found her there; but he was dearer, — his interest the 
first thought. She would like to see him in his true 
sphere ; to cheer him on in his work for God and man. 


864 


SOME WOMEN'^S HEARTS. 


There was little for him to do in the quiet New Eng- 
land town. He wanted more room, she knew. So she 
put her hand in his and answered him, — 

“Let us go back to your work. I shall have no re- 
grets. Where thou goest I will go. Thy people shall 
be my people, and thy God my God.” 

So, three weeks after, true husband and true wife, 
they went hand in hand out of Nazareth. 


Cambridge; Press of John Wilson & Son. 


Messrs, Roberts Brothers^ Ptiblications^ 


PRISONERS OF POVERTY. 

WOMEN WAGE-WORKERS : THEIR TRADES AND 

THEIR LIVES. 

By HELEN CAMPBELL, 

AUTHOR OF “the WHAT-TO-DO CLUB,” “ MRS. HERNDON’s INCOME,” “ MISS 

Melinda’s opportunity,” etc. 

i6mo. Cloth, ^i.oo. Paper, 50 cents. 


♦ 

The author writes earnestly and warmly, but without prejudice, and her volume 
is an eloquent plea for the amelioration of the evils with which she deals. In the 
present importance into which the labor question generally has loomed, this vol- 
ume is a timely and valuable contribution to its literature, and merits wide read- 
ing and careful thought. — Saturday Evening Gazette. 

She has given us a most effective picture of the condition of New York working- 
women, because she has brought to the study of the subject not only great care 
but uncommon aptitude. ^ She has made a close personal investigation, extending 
apparently over a long time ; she has had the penetration to search many queer 
and dark corners which are not often thought of by similar explorers ; and we 
suspect that, unlike too many philanthropists, she has the faculty of winning con- 
fidence and extracting the truth. She is sympathetic, but not a sentimentalist ; 
she appreciates exactness in facts and figures ; she can see both sides of a ques- 
tion, and she has abundant common sense. — New York Tribune. 

Helen Campbell’s “Prisoners of Poverty” is a striking example of the trite 
phrase that “ truth is stranger than fiction.” It is a series of pictures of the lives 
of women wage-workers in New York, based on the minutest personal inquiry and 
observation. No work of fiction has ever presented more startling pictures, and, 
indeed, if they occurred in a novel would at once be stamped as a figment of the 
brain. . . . Altogether, Mrs. Campbell’s book is a notable contribution to the labor 
literature of the day, and will undoubtedly enlist sympathy for the cause of the op- 
pressed working- women whose stories do their own pleading. — Springfield U7tion. 

It is good to see a new book by Helen Campbell. She has written several 
for the cause of working- women, and now comes her latest and best work, called 
“ Prisoners of Poverty,” on women wage-workers and their lives. It is compiled 
from a series of papers written for the Sunday edition of a New York paper. The 
author is well qualified to write on these topics, having personally investigated the 
horrible situation of a vast army of working-women in New York, — a reflection of 
the same conditions that exist in all large cities. 

It is glad tidings to hear that at last a voice is raised for the woman side of these 
great labor questions that are seething below the surface calm of society. And it 
is well that one so eloquent and sympathetic as Helen Campbell has spoken in be- 
half of the victims and against the horrors, the injustices, and the crimes that have 
forced thern into conditions of living — if it can be called living — that are worse than 
death. It is painful to read of these terrors that exist so near our doors, but none 
the less necessary, for no person of mind or heart can thrust this knowledge aside. 
It is the first step towards a solution of the labor complications, some of which 
have assumed foul shapes and colossal proportions, thrbugh ignorance, weakness, 
and wickedness. — Hartford Times. 


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A WEEK AWAY FROM TIME. 

i2mo, Cloth, Price, $1.25 ; Paper Covers, 50 cents. 


The scene of this novel is Fair Harbor, which, by the way, is a little nook on 
the Buzzard’s Bay shore of Cape Cod, in the town of Falmouth. The book 
deals not so much with Cape Cod life as with life on Cape Cod, — the life, how- 
ever, of the summer visitor, of the seeker after pleasure, not the life of us “ to the 
manner born.” Of the scenery on Cape Cod, of the drives to Barnstable Great 
Marshes, of cranberry picking, of the sea, the author writes delicately and affec- 
tionately. We, who are so used to the ordinary sights of the Cape, will read with 
pleasure of the beauties that our too accustomed eyes have failed to perceive in 
our surroundings. — Provincetown A dvocate. 

A week spent by a happy party at “ Fair Harbor,” a place located somewhere 
between Falmouth and Woods Holl, “at the very tip end of the heel of Cape 
Cod.” Margaret Temple, a young widow, with a “supremely fortunate nature,” 
finds this place, which is a “ fairy inlet where the voices of sirens singing to your 
soul would bid you stay and be at rest.” She purchases “The White House,” a 
quaint old mansion, for a summer home, and here it is that the principal action of 
the story is laid. A half-dozen or more of congenial friends gather for a week’s 
rest, and employ the time in quiet diversions, devoting the evenings to the read- 
ing of original stories prepared by members of the party in turn. The party is 
admirably adapted to the development of romance ; and although in one case an 
athletic young Apollo sails away with a broken heart, the sum total is so much 
happiness that the conclusion is very satisfactory. — New Bedford Mercury. 

Anonymous though it be, there are too many marks and crosses, tracks and 
trails, in this little volume for an observant reader to remain long in doubt as to 
birthplace and parentage. The conversations alone betray Boston, and the sto- 
ries the highest circle of literary society there. Imitating the refined tone of the 
company writing, invidious selections and comparisons are avoided ; and if especial 
mention is made of the exquisite prelude, it is only in indorsement of the taste 
that placed it conspicuously, where it should be, to arrest the eye of the reader and 
give the key-note of the charming tnotif to follow. — Hartford Courant. 

The charm of the book — and it has a charm — lies in the hospitable way in 
which the reader is allowed to share the confidences of this clever little group. 

“ A Week Away from Time ” enlarges agreeably our list of friends, and we find 
ourselves half wishing that the week were lengthened into a fortnight. — Boston 
Transcript. 

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MRS. , HERNDON’S INCOME. 

A NOVEL. 

By HELEN CAMPBELL. 

AUTHOR OF “ THE WHAT-TO-DO CLUB.” 

One volume. i6mo. Cloth. $1.50. 


Confirmed novel-readers who have regarded fiction as created for amusement 
and luxury alone, laydown this book with a new and serious purpose in life. The 
social scientist reads it, and finds the solution of many a tangled problem ; the 
philanthropist finds in it direction and counsel. A novel written with a purpose, 
of which never for an instant does the author lose sight, it is yet absorbing in its 
interest. It reveals the narrow motives and the intrinsic selfishness of certain 
grades of social life ; the corruption of business methods ; the ‘ false, fairy gold 
of fashionable charities, and ‘ advanced ’ thought. Margaret Wentworth is .c 
typical New England girl, reflective, absorbed, full of passionate and repressed 
intensity under a quiet and apparently cold exterior. The events that group 
themselves about her life are the natural result of such a character brought into 
contact with real life. The book cannot be too widely read.” — Boston Traveller. 

” If the ‘ What-to-doClub ’ was clever, this is decidedly more so. It is a pow- 
erful story, and is evidently written in some degree, we cannot quite say how great 
a degree, from fact. The personages of the story are very well drawn, — indeed, 

‘ Amanda Briggs ’ is as good as anything American fiction has produced. We 
fancy we could pencil on the margin the real names of at least half the characters. 

It is a book for the wealthy to read that they may know something that is required 
of them, because it does not ignore the difficulties in their way, and especially 
does not overlook the differences which social standing puts between class and 
class. It is a deeply interesting story considered as mere fiction, one of the best 
which has lately appeared. We hope the authoress will go on in a path where 
she has shown herself so capable.” — The Churchman, 

“In Mrs. Campbell’s novel we have a work that is not to be judged by 
ordinary standards. The story holds the reader’s interest by its realistic pictures 
of the local life around us, by its constant and progressive action, knd by the 
striking dramatic quality of scenes and incidents, described in a style clear, con- 
nected, and harmonious. The novel-reader who is not taken up and made to 
share the author’s enthusiasm before getting half-way through the book must 
possess a taste satiated and depraved by indulgence in exciting and sensational 
fiction. The earnestness of the author’s presentation of essentially great purposes 
lends intensity to her narrative. Succeeding as she does in impressing us strongly 
with her convictions, there is nothing of dogmatism in their preaching. But the 
suggestiveness of every chapter is backed by pictures of real life .” — New York 
World. ^ 

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MISS MELINDA’S OPPORTUNITY. 

A STORY. 

By HELEN CAMPBELL, 

AUTHOR OF “the WHAT-TO-DO CLUB,’’ “MRS. HERNDON’S INCOME,” 
“ PRISONERS OF POVERTY.” 

i6mo. Cloth. Price, $i.oo. 

» 

“Mrs. Helen Campbell has written ‘Miss Melinda’s Opportunity’ with a 
definite purpose in view, and this purpose will reveal itself to the eyes of all of its 
philanthropic readers. The true aim of the story is to make life more real and 
pleasant to the young girls who spend the greater part of the day toiling in the 
busy stores of New York. Just as in the ‘Whal-to-do Club ’ the social level of 
village life was lifted several grades higher, so are the little friendly circles of shop- 
girls made to enlarge and form clubs in ‘Miss Melinda’s Opportunity.’” — 
Boston Herald. 

“ ‘ Miss Melinda’s Opportunity,’ a story by Helen Campbell, is in a some- 
what lighter vein than are the earlier books of this clever author; but it is none 
the less interesting and none the less realistic. The plot is unpretentious, and 
deals with the simplest and most conventional of themes ; but the character- 
drawing is uncommonly strong, especially that of Miss Melinda, which is a re- 
markably vigorous and interesting transcript from real life, and highly finished to 
the slightest details. There is much quiet humor in the book, and it is handled 
with skill and reserve. Those who have been attracted to Mrs. Campbell’s other 
works will welcome the latest of them with pleasure and satisfaction.” — Satur- 
day Gazette, 

“ The best book that Helen Campbell has yet produced is her latest story, 

‘ Miss Melinda’s Opportunity,’ which is especially strong in character-drawing, 
and its life sketches are realistic and full of vigor, with a rich vein of humor run- 
ning through them. Miss Melinda is a dear lady of middle life, who has finally 
found her opportunity to do a great amount of good with her ample pecuniary 
means by helping those who have the disposition to help themselves. The story 
of how some bright and energetic girls who had gone to New York to earn their 
living put a portion of their earnings into a common treasury, and provided them- 
selves with a comfortable home and good fare for a very small sum per week, is 
not only of lively interest, but furnishes hints for other girls in similar circum- 
stances that may prove of great value. An unpretentious but well-sustained plot 
runs through the book, with a happy ending, in which Miss Melinda figures as 
the angel that she is. ” — Home Journal. 

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BLESSED SAINT CERTAINTY. 

A STORY. 

By the Author of “His Majesty, Myself,’’ “The Making 
of a Man,” &c. 

** Saint Certainty is one of the saints who has little to do with human affairs. 
The romance is well worth reading for its merits as a story, and for the meta- 
physical theory it advocates. It is thought-provoking, as well as entertaining, 
and it touches upon the great laws of heredity, both mental and physical, which 
enter largely into the construction of the human organism.” — Provide7tce 
journal, 

“He is emphatically an original writer, vigorous, sincere, and earnest. The 
hero of this book is the head of an Indian tribe, though only partially of Indian 
blood himself. He has much that is heroic in his make-up, with many untameji 
qualities. The scene opens in the Indian Territory ; it is continued in the South 
during and after the war ; and Boston, to which the heroines are brought to be 
educated, makes a part of it also. The Western and Southern portions are the 
best, however. Mr. Baker is always most at home here. In the Boston experi- 
ence of his heroines he finds opportunity to give his views of the education of 
women, and to make a vigorous plea for the spiritual development of the human 
soul against the newer faiths and philosophy. There is much heart in this, and 
it will be relished by a class which seldom find a champion in so high an order of 
imaginative literature. The book is a credit to the author in every sense, and an 
important accession to the best kind of American authorship. Defects may be 
easily found in it, but it is far superior to most other novels in which there are 
fewer angularities.” — hidianapolis Sentinel. 

“The author of* His Majesty, Myself,’ and co-laborer with Colonel Forney in 
writing * A New Nobility,’ exhibits nearly all of the peculiarities of his style and 
method in * Blessed Saint Certainty.’ Indeed, we may, with great propriety, 
exceed this somewhat moderate commendation, by admitting that this is one of 
the striking novels of the season. Mr. Baker always writes with a distinct object 
in view, and that object is not to write a story without reference to any other con- 
sideration. He evidently intends to mingle instruction with amusement. . . . 
The story is well conceived, admirably told, and is so unique withal that it is sure 
to commend itself, particularly to thoughtful novel-readers, a class not so small 
as it might at first blush seem probable.” — Chicago Sahirday Herald. 

One volume. i6mo. Cloth. Price $i-SO. 

— ♦ — 

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HELEN JACKSON’S WRITINGS 


HAMONA. A Story. i2mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50. 
(50th thousand.) 

The Atlantic Monthly szys ol the author that she is “a Murillo in litera- 
ture,” and that the story ” is one of the "most artistic creations of American 
literature,” Says a lady: “To me it is the most distinctive piece of work we 
have had in this country since ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ and its exquisite finish of 
style is beyond that classic,” “ The book is truly an American novel,” says 
the Boston Advertiser. “ Ramona is one of the most charming creations of 
modern fiction,” says Charles D, Warner. “ The romance of the story is 
irresistibly fascinating,” says The hidependent, “The best novel written by a 
woman since George Eliot died, as it seems to me, is Mrs. Jackson’s ‘ Ramona,’ ” 
says T. W. Higginson. 

ZEPH. A Posthumous Story. i2mo. Cloth. 

Price, $1.25. 

Those who think that all the outrage and wrong are on the side of the man, 
and all the suffering and endurance on the side of the woman, cannot do better 
than read this sad and moving sketch. It is written by a woman ; but never, I 
think, have I heard of more noble and self-sacrificing conduct than that of the 
much-tried husband in this story, or conduct more vile and degrading than that 
of the woman who went by the name of his wife. Such stories show how much 
both sexes have to forgive and forget The author, who died before she could 
complete this little tale of Colorado life, never wrote anything more beautiful for 
its insight into human nature, and certainly never anything more instinct with 
true pathos. A writer of high and real gifts as a novelist w'as lost to the world 
by the untimely death of Mrs. Jackson. — The Academy^ Lo7idon. 

BETWEEN WHILES. A Collection of Sto- 

ries. i2mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25. 

Mrs. Helen Jackson’s publishers have collected six of her best short stories 
into this volume. Most of them appeared in magazines in the last year or two 
of her life. “ The Inn of the Golden Pear,” the longest and by far the strongest 
of them all, is, however, entirely new to the public. 

Outside of her one grea romance (“ Ramona”), the author has never appealed 
to the human heart with more simple and beautiful certainty than in these de- 
lightful pictures. — Bullethi., San Francisco. 

Mrs. Helen Jackson’s “ Little Bel’s Supplement,” the touching story of a 
young schoolmistress in Prince Edward’s Island, is not likely to be forgotten by 
any one who has read it. The high and splendid purpose that directed the 
literary work of ‘ H. H.,” and which is apparent in nearly everything that came 
from her pen, was supported by a peculiar power, unerring artistic taste, and 
a pathos all her own. This charming tale and one about the Adirondacks and 
a child’s dream form part of the contents of this posthumous volume, to which, 
on her death-bed, she gave the beautiful title “ Between Whiles.” It is worthy 
to be placed alongside of her most finished pieces. — Co^nntercial Advertiser^ 
New York. 

MERCY PHILBRICK’S CHOICE. i6mo. 

Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

HETTY’S STRANGE HISTORY. i6mo. 

Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

These two stories were originally published anonymously, having been written 
for the “ No Name Series ” of novels, in which they had a large popularity. 


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HELEN JACKSON’S WRITINGS 


BITS OF TRAVEL. Square i8mo. Cloth, red 

edges. Price, $1.25. 

The volume has few of the characteristics of an' ordinary book of travel. 
It is entertaining and readable, from cover to cover ; and when the untravelled 
reader has finished it, he will find that he knows a great deal more about life in 
Europe — having seen it through intelligent and sympathetic eyes — than he 
ever got before from a dozen more pretentious volumes. — Hartford Courant. 

BITS OF TRAVEL AT HOME. Square i8mo. 

Cloth, red edges. Price, $1.50. 

The descriptions of American scenery in this volume indicate the imagina- 
tion of a poet, the eye of an acute observer of Nature, the hand of an artist, and 
the heart of a woman. 

H. H.’s choice of words is of itself a study of color. Her picturesque dic- 
tion rivals the skill of the painter, and presents the woods and waters of the 
Great West with a splendor of illustration that can scarcely be surpassed by the 
brightest glow of the canvas. Her intuitions of character are no less keen than 
her perceptions of Nature. — N. V. Tribum, 

QLIMPSES OF THREE COASTS: Cali- 
fornia and Oregon; Scotland and England; Norway, 

Denmark, and Germany, izmo. Cloth. Price, $1.50. 

Helen Hunt Jackson has left another monumental memorial of her literary 
life in the volume entitled “Glimpses of Three Coasts,” which is just published 
and includes some fourteen papers relating to life in California and Oregon, in 
Scotland and England, and on the North Shore of Europe in Germany, Den- 
mark, and Norway. The sketches are marked by that peculiar charm that 
characterizes Mrs. Jackson’s interpretations of Nature and life. She had the 
divining gift of the poet; she had the power of philosophic reflection ; and these, 
with her keen observation and swift sympathies and ardent temperament, make 
her the ideal interpreter of a country’s life and resources. — Traveller^ Boston. 

BITS OF TALK ABOUT HOME MAT- 

TERS. Square i8mo. Cloth, red edges. Price, $1.00. 

“ Bits of Talk ” is a book that ought to have a place of honor in every house- 
hold; for it teaches, not only the true dignity of parentage, but of- childhood. 
As we read it, we laugh and cry with the author, and acknowledge that, since the 
child is father of the man, in being the champion of childhood, she is the cham- 
pion of the whole coming race. Great is the rod, but H, H. is not its prophet I 
— Mrs. Harriet Prescott Spofford, in Newburyport Herald. 

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Our Autumn Holiday 

ON FRENCH RIVERS. . i 

By J. L. MOLLOY. 

With Pictorial Title. i6mo. Paper covers, 50 cents ; cloth, $i.oo. 


“ A quite fascinating book for idle summer days. Mr. Molloy has the true 
gift of narrating. He is a charming chronicler of the voyage of ‘The Marie* 
on the tumultuous Seine, and on the solemn, mighty Loire. ... A bright, sunny 
book, so full of pleasant fun and refined enjoyment.” — Boston Daily Advertiser. 

“There is not a stupid page in the whole book; every chapter is jolly, fresh, 
observant ; the whole reflects delightfully both the spirit in which the jaunt was 
undertaken, and that in which the country-side accepted the jovial wanderers. . . 
‘An Autumn Holiday’ will cause many readers to pass a happy hour or two. It 
is not stimulative to the brain , it requires no effort of thought ; intellectual per- 
sons may find it spun out, and serious people discover its levity ; but hot and tired 
people will regret neither the coolness of its main theme nor its happy super- 
ficiality.” — New York Times. 

“ Mr. Molloy has a singularly delicate and quick touch ; and his fun and 
pathos are equally ready and genuine. His little volume of sketches is a rate 
W'ork ; it is in every way charming, full of information, and delicious as the fra- 
grance and savor of a peach grown against a south-looking wall with its crimson 
cheek set toward the sun. Wherever the lover of pleasant books may be, — in 
quiet country town, under shade of mighty hills and their pine-forests, or near the 
sounding promontories of the sea, or if he stay in the heat and noise of the 
town, — he can have no more delightful reading than this record of an Autumn 
Holiday on French Rivers.” — Portland Press. 

“ Roberts Brothers are issuing a charming series of books of out-door life, 
which is just the kind of books that are called for both by the present season and 
the growing taste for that kind of recreation. Another one just published is ‘ Our 
Autumn Holidays on French Rivers,’ by J L. Molloy, and is as bright, breezy, 
spirited, and racy of the country life which it depicts, as any one can desire.” — 
Hartford C our ant. 

# 

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TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 


CEVENNES. 



By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. 


With’ Frontispiece Illustration by Walter Crane. i6mo. 
Paper covers, 50 cents ; cloth, $ 1 . 00 . 


“This is one of the brightest books of travel that has recently come to our 
notice. The author, Robert Louis Stevenson, sees every thing with the eye of a 
philosopher, and is disposed to see the bright rather than the dark side of what 
passes under his observation. He has a steady flow of humor that is as appar- 
rently spontaneous as a mountain brook, and he views a landscape or a human 
figure, not only as a tourist seeking subjects for a book, but as an artist to whom 
the slightest line or tint conveys a definite impression.’'* — Boston Cotirier. 

“ A very agreeable companion for a summer excursion is brought to our side 
without ceremony in this lively reprint of a journal of travel in the interior of 
France. For all locomotive or four-horse stage coach, the writer had chartered a 
little she-ass, not much bigger than a dog, whom he christened ‘ Modestine,’ and 
whose fascinating qualities soon proved that she was every way worthy of the 
name. Mounted on this virtuous beast, with an inordinate supply of luggage 
slung over her patient back in a sheepskin bag, the larder well provided with 
cakes of chocolate and tins of Bologna sausage, cold mutton and the potent wine 
of Beaujolais, the light-hearted traveller took his way to the mountains of South- 
ern France. He has no more story to tell than had the ‘weary knife-grinder,’ 
but he jots down the little odds and ends of his journey in an off-hand, garrulous 
tone which sounds as pleasantly as the careless talk of a cheerful companion in a 
country ramble. The reader must not look for nuggets of gold in these slight 
pages, but the sparkling sands which they shape into bright forms are both at- 
tractive and amusing.” — N. Y. Tribune. 

“‘Travels with a Donkey’ is charming, full of grace, and humor, and fresh- 
ness : such refined humor it all is, too, and so evidently the work of a gentleman. 
I am half in love with him, and much inclined to think that a ramble anywhere 
with such a companion must be worth taking. What a happy knack he has of 
giving the taste of a landscape or any out-door impression in ten words ! ” 


♦ 


Sold by all Booksellet's. ^Mailed., postpaid., by the Pub- 
lishers^ 


ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston 


Messrs, Roberts Brothers^ Publicatio^zs 


IN HIS NAME. 


A Story of the Waldenses, Seven Hundred Years Ago. 
By E. E. hale. 


Square i8mo. Price, $i.oo. Paper, 30 cents. 

/ 

•o* 

From the Liberal Christian. 

“ One of the most helpful, pure, and thoroughly Christian books of which wo 
have any knowledge. It has the mark of no sect, creed, or denomination upon it, 
but the spirit pervading it is the Christly spirit. ... We might well speak of the 
author’s great success in giving an air of quaintness to the st3'le, befitting a story 
of life ‘ seven hundred years ago.’ We do not know exactly what lends to it this 
flavor of antiquity, but the atmosphere is full of some subtle quality which removes 
the tale from our nineteenth century commonplace. In this respect, and in its 
dramatic vividness of action, ‘ In His Name,’ perhaps, takes as high a rank as any 
of Mr. Hale’s literary work.” 

From the N. Y. Commercial A dvertiser. 

A touching, almost a thrilling, tale is this by E. E. Hale, in its pathetic sim- 
plicity and its deep meaning. It is a story of the Waldenses in the days when 
Richard Coeur de Lion and his splendid following wended their way to the Cru- 
sades, and w’hen the name of Christ inspired men who dwelt in palaces, and men 
who sheltered themselves in the forests of France. ‘In his Name’ was the 
‘Open Sesame’ to the hearts of such as these, and it is to illustrate the power of 
this almost magical phrase that the story is written. That it is charmingly writ- 
ten follows from its authorship. There is in fact no little book that we have seen 
of late that offers so much of so pleasant reading in such little space, and con- 
veys so apt and pertinent a lesson of pure religion.” 

“ The very loveliest Christmas Story ever written. It has the ring of an old 
Troubadour in it.” 

• 

Sold everywjiere by all booksellers. Mailed.^ post-paid, 
by the publishers, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 


Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 


OFF THE SKELLIGS. 

A NOVEL. 

By JEA-lSr INO-IGBOW. 
i6mo, cloth. Price ^i.oo. 


From the Literary World. 

“ The first novel from the pen of one of the most popular 
poets of the age — written, too, in the author’s maturity, 
when her name is almost exclusively associated with verse, 
so far as literature is concerned, and therefore to be regarded 
as a deliberate work, and one in which she challenges the 
decisive judgment of the public — will be read with universal 
and eager interest. . . . We have read this book with con- 
stantly increasing pleasure. It is a novel with a soul in it, 
that imparts to the reader an influence superior to mere 
momentary entertainment ; it is not didactic, but it teaches ; 
it is genuine, fresh, healthy, presents cheerful views of life, 
and exalts nobility of character without seeming to do so.” 

Extract from a private letter, — not intended for publica- 
tion, — the hearty opinion of one of the most popular and 
favorite writers of the present day : — 

“ Thanks for the book. I sat up nearly all night to read ity and 
think it very charming. ... I hope she will soon write agam ; for we 
y^eed just such simple, pure, and cheerful stories here m A^nerua, 
where even the nursery songs are sensational, and the beautiful old 
books we used to love are now called didl and slow. I shall sing Us 
‘praises loud and long, and set all my boys and girls to reading ‘ Ojf 
the Skelligsl sure that they will learn to love it as well as they do her 
charming Songs. Jf I could reach so far, I should love to shake 
hands with Miss Ingelow, and^ thank her heartily for this delightful 
book." 


Sold everywhere. Mailed, post-paid, by the Publishers, 
ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 


MESSES. EOBEETS BEOTHEES’ PTJBLIOATIOES. 


JFamous COomen Series* 

GEORGE ELIOT. 

By MATHILDE BLIND. 

One vol. i6mo. Cloth. Price, $i.oo. 


“ Messrs. Roberts Brothers begin a series of Biographies of Famous 
Women with a life of George Eliot, by Mathilde Blind. The idea of thi 
series is an excellent one, and the reputation of its publishers is a guarantee 
for its adequate execution. This book contains about three hundred pages in 
open type, and not only collects and condenses the main facts that are known 
in regard to the history of George Eliot, but supplies other material from 
personal research. It is agreeably written, and with a good idea of proper 
tion in a memoir of its size. The critical study of its subject’s works, which 
is made in the order of their appearance, is particularly well done. In fact, 
good taste and good judgment pervade the memoir throughout.” — Saturday 
Evening Gazette. 

“ Miss Blind’s little book is written with admirable good taste and judg- 
ment, and with notable self-restraint. It does not weary the reader with 
critical discursiveness, nor with attempts to search out high-flown meanings 
and recondite oracles in the plain ‘yea’ and ‘ nay ’ of life. It is a graceful 
and unpretentious little biography, and tells all that need be told concerning 
one of the greatest writers of the time. It is a deeply interesting if not 
fascinating woman whom Miss Blind presents,” says the New York 
Tribune. 

“ Miss Blind’s little biographical study of George Eliot is written with 
sympathy and good taste, and is very welcome. It gives us a graphic ii not 
elaborate sketch of the personality and development of the great novelist, is 
particularly full and authentic concerning her earlier years, tells enough of 
the leading motives in her work to give the general reader a lucid idea of the 
true drift and purpose of her art, and analyzes carefully her various writings, 
with no attempt at profound criticism or fine writing, but with appreciation, 
insight, and a clear grasp of those underlying psychological principles which 
are so closely interwoven in every production that came from her pen.” — 
Traveller. 

“ The lives of few great writers have attracted more curiosity and specula- 
tion than that of George Eliot. Had she only lived earlier in the century 
she might easily have become the centre of a mythos. As it is, many of the 
anecdotes commonly repeated about her are made up largely of fable. It is, 
therefore, w'ell, before it is too late, to reduce the true story of her career to 
the lowest terms, and this service has been well done by the author of the 
present volume.” — Philadelphia Press. 

Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, post-paid, on receipt of 
price, by the publishers, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 


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